Feline and Canine
by foxboxtango97
Summary: Sherlock and John are both shapeshifters. They begin appearing at the crime scenes in their animal forms, and it all descends to hell from there. With Moriarty on the loose, Anderson being an idiot as normal and a slightly mad and definitely inappropriate 'house guest' that drives both of them insane, what could possibly go wrong? (Mild innuendo, but nothing serious)
1. Testing the Waters

Chapter One  
Testing the Waters

One day, Sherlock arrived, not with John in tow, but a large German Shepherd instead. Sally gazed open-mouthed at him and the dog, not even bothering with her usual taunts. Sherlock waited to be let through, but when it became obvious she wasn't going to move any time soon, rolled his eyes and lifted it up himself, stepping under elegantly. The dog glanced at Sally and followed him, huffing to itself. She turned and stared at them as they entered the crime scene, still unable to do anything else. They disappeared through the door and she blinked to herself.

"_Sherlock!_"

Sally grinned. Even when completely shocked, she could still appreciate the sounds of Sherlock getting told off.

"Why the hell do you have a dog?"  
"I'm looking after him."

Lestrade stared.

"_You're_ looking after a dog?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Yes, Lestrade. I'm looking after a dog. I don't know why you're so surprised at me taking care of something, seeing as I look after your horribly incompetent team nearly every day."

The dog huffed and wagged its tail once to hit Sherlock in the leg.

Lestrade stared.

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"Crime scene?" he prompted.  
"Yeah, yeah," Lestrade replied vaguely, still staring.

The dog huffed again, its tongue lolling in what could be considered a grin.

"Oh for Christ's sake."

Sherlock disappeared, leaving Lestrade and the German Shepherd to stare at each other. He crouched down so they were at eye level.

"You're injured," he said, noticing how the dog held its left foreleg up protectively. The dog tilted its head and if to say, _Yes, well done Lestrade, brilliant deduction_.

"Lestrade! If you've quite finished staring, come in here!"

The dog huffed and grinned again, trotting off to find Sherlock and managing quite well despite its injured leg. By the time Lestrade joined Sherlock, he had almost overcome his surprise and managed to realise that, really, a dog should _not _be at a crime scene.

"Sherlock," he started, but was waved off.  
"He's fine. He won't mess around with the evidence." He went silent, as if waiting for something.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock sighed and let out an exasperated, "Please?"

The dog huffed again (Lestrade realised it was an amused noise) and made its over to the body, sniffing it carefully.

"Sherlock!"  
"It's fine, be quiet."

The dog continued sniffing. It circled the body and stared at it appraisingly. Lestrade had to wonder what the hell was going on.

"No, you're not dreaming. And really, please do be quiet, you're very distracting."

He couldn't even find anything to say to that.

After a few minutes, the dog had apparently completed its assessment of the body and sat down, waiting for some kind of signal.

"Come on," Sherlock encouraged.

The dog tilted its head.

"Yes, I'm ready! We've practised this over and over again. If I haven't got it by now, I won't get it at all. And I _have_ got it by now."

And if Lestrade had thought things were strange before, they were nothing compared to what was happening before his eyes.

The German Shepherd rolled onto its back and placed its right foreleg across its neck.

"Asphyxiation. Obvious!"

The dog threw him a dirty look and got to its feet again. Its head dropped and its shoulders rolled, as if it were retching.

"Choked on her own vomit. Keep going."

The dog snarled.

"Victim fought back. Oh! Got it!"  
"What the hell was _that?_"  
"That, Lestrade, was a dog doing your forensics team's job in a few minutes."

He spluttered.

"Anyway, I've got your murderer."  
"How! – oh, never mind."  
"Are you going to take it down?"  
"I'll remember!"  
"I won't repeat it."  
"_Sherlock!_"

"The murderer is a man, quite tall; I'd say six foot two, six foot three. He attacked the victim from behind, dragged her into this room with his arm around her neck. Once he got her in here, she managed to escape his hold and fight back, but he overpowered her, so he's taller and stronger. He'll have broad shoulders; he's got large hands and large feet. He's a software designer, works locally, and catches the tube to work. I hope that's enough for you to go on."

"How did you get all that? And how did your dog do…whatever he did?"

There was the softest, tiniest growl from the dog. Sherlock smiled.

"I assure you, he is quite his own. I trust you'll find the killer eventually. Do call."

He whistled and walked out of the room. The dog rolled its head as though it was trying to roll its eyes but hadn't quite got the hang of it yet, and loped out of the room to follow Sherlock. It stopped by Lestrade, patted him twice on the knee with its tail, huffed once, and continued on its way.

_What the hell just happened?_

* * *

A/N:

Hello!

This is my first Sherlock fic (thought you ought to know). It's all written out and edited, so all that's left is to post it. Please feel free to leave any feedback and thanks for reading! I don't really have the patience to upload at certain times, so it will probably be random updates, but the story will be posted pretty quickly (hopefully people are reading...)

Cheers,  
FoxBoxTango97


	2. Making Sure it's Still Hot

Chapter Two  
Making Sure it's Still Hot

A week after the incident with the dog, John arrived at the crime scene with a black cat hanging onto his shoulder, swaying precariously. As he approached the tape, he muttered,

"If you dig your claws into my jumper and ruin it, you're buying me a new one!"

Sally blinked. _Did John just tell a cat it would have to buy him a new jumper?_

John's frown morphed into a pleasant smile as he neared her.

"Hello Sergeant. Is Lestrade in there?"

The cat ignored her, turning its face away determinedly.

"Um, yeah," she said vaguely, staring at the cat. "Nice cat."  
"Thanks. He's not mine, actually, but I have to take care of him for a few days. He's a right pain, but a friend needed a favour."

The cat whacked its tail against the back of John's head, but otherwise didn't move.

"Right, well. Lestrade's through here."  
"Thanks."

He gave another pleasant, though strained smile and ducked under the tape. Sally, stared at his back as he made his way carefully through the grass. As she watched, the cat turned to face her. It tilted its head mischievously, flicked its tail once, and…

_winked?_

"You've got to be kidding me!"

John grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, Greg."  
"Where's Sherlock?"  
"He had to do something for Mycroft."  
"He willingly did something for _Mycroft_?"

John grimaced.

"I wouldn't say willingly. There was a fair bit of bullying going on, from both sides actually."  
"Christ."  
"Yeah, it wasn't great. Anyway, he sent me to look through everything; I have to take a few pictures, write a few notes and _do_ try not to botch it up too much."

Lestrade smiled in sympathy.

John's eye twitched when the cat's tail hit his head again.

"Well, go ahead and do what you need to do. I'd be glad to get out of the way of those two if I were you."  
"You have no idea. Sherlock I can pretty much deal with, but Mycroft is _creepy_."

The cat disappeared from John's shoulder.

"Don't I know it. After Sherlock came in for the first time, Mycroft ambushed me on my way home and gave me this huge speech about being a concerned party."  
"After I came here for the first time (you remember – a Study in Pink), Mycroft started ringing telephone booths until I picked up."  
"You can ring telephone booths?"  
"I know, right? Anyway, after I picked up, he turned all of the CCTV cameras around and this black car appeared that I was threatened into."  
"_Christ_."  
"It took me to an abandoned warehouse (I still have no idea where it is) and he read off my therapist's notes and told me he'd be happy to pay me a significant amount of money to give him information on Sherlock."  
"_What_?"  
"Yeah, and I didn't know Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, so I thought I'd just been kidnapped by some crazy criminal mastermind. What didn't help was Sherlock saying Mycroft was his archenemy and the most dangerous man I've ever met. I only learnt they were brothers after you guys got the cabbie and we were about to leave. He still scares the crap out of me."  
"I really don't envy you, having to deal with both the Holmses. One's enough – too much, really – for me."

At some point, the cat had reappeared, and it now flicked John once again. John's mouth tightened.

"I wish he'd leave us alone, I really do, but he's got a huge power complex mixed with being a ridiculously overprotective big brother, so I don't think it's likely to happen anytime soon. Well, I'd better get back to Sherlock before he does something too drastic; I don't want to get home to find the place on fire."  
"Good luck."  
"Thanks Greg, you too."

Only later, when Lestrade was unlocking the door to his house and flicking on the lights did he realise that John never took notes or photos. Indeed, he never left Lestrade the entire time he was there.


	3. Diving Right In

Chapter Three  
Diving Right In

"Alright you two, what's going on?"

Two animals stared up at him guiltily. Lestrade's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him; the injured German Shepherd that Sherlock had brought with him was lying on the floor, facing the TV and the black cat that had been riding on John's shoulder was sitting on the table in front of a book, a page suspended in midair by his tail.

"What the…?"

They turned to look at each other. They seemed to have a silent conversation, and then the dog gave a loud, rumbling sigh and put its good foreleg over its eyes. The black cat turned and jumped gracefully onto the chair, and Sherlock looked imperiously at Lestrade.

The D.I bit his tongue, turned around, closed the door, and turned back again.

"Explain."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John." It was a command. The dog sighed again, sat up and suddenly John Watson was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He raised his hand in a sheepish greeting. Greg clenched his jaw.

"That's not explaining anything," he said tersely. It was that, or run away screaming. John rose to his feet and went into the kitchen. The sounds of tea being made were comforting and Lestrade edged cautiously into the room to sit on the couch. John brought out two mugs, gave one to Greg and retreated to his chair.

"Sherlock?"  
"Really, John? You want me to do this?"  
"Never mind."  
"Exactly."

John sighed and dropped his shoulders.

"Ever since I can remember, I've been able to shift."

Greg opened his mouth, but John held up a hand.

"Please. When I'm done, you can ask questions." He ran a hand through his hair, took a sip of tea to fortify himself, and continued. "It wasn't always a German Shepherd. I used to be able to change into whatever I liked, although I always tended towards dogs. I think I subconsciously chose a specific breed when I went through the army; whenever I saw dogs being used, they were German Shepherds." He paused, took another sip of tea. "I don't really understand it. Not everyone is able to do it, obviously, but it's as natural as walking to me. I was invalided home because I was shot in the left shoulder. As a dog, that entire leg is useless to me, but it's surprisingly easy to walk on three legs. My right hind leg used to drag behind me, because of my limp, but after Sherlock cured that, it was fine. We recognised each other for what we were straight away, but we never talked mentioned it until about a month ago. When I first came back after Afghanistan, I didn't like shifting in front of other people because I didn't want anyone to see what it had to my animal, even if they didn't actually know it was me. I think Sherlock figured it out, because he never got me to talk about it. One day I was coming home from work or Tesco's, I don't really remember-"  
"Tesco's."  
"Thanks. Anyway, Sherlock must have been thinking about something harder than usual because he didn't hear me coming up the stairs. When I opened the door I found a black cat lying on the couch, tailing flicking around all over the place. Since then, we've been more open with it and I don't mind as much about the leg. I can still run quickly, after all; faster than Sherlock when he shifts, at least."  
"_Just_."  
"Still. And that's about it, I think."

Silence reigned. Lestrade blinked. He turned to Sherlock.

"Have _you_ always been able to do it?"  
"Yes."  
"Oh."

John looked closely at him.

"Are you alright?"

He tilted his head, put the mug on the coffee table and placed his hands on his knees. He was breathing heavily. Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

"He's having a bit of trouble comprehending our existence."  
"Shut up, Sherlock."

Lestrade gave a wheezing laugh and held up a hand.

"I'm fine."  
"Are you sure? Do you want something to eat?"

He shook his head.

"No, thank you, I'm really fine."

Silence picked up its crown, dusted it off, threw itself back in its throne, and continued reigning.

"So."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood.

"John?"  
"Wha - oh! Does he…?"  
"He's too _polite_ to ask."

John nodded, they grinned at each other, and then the animals were back. The dog huffed and wagged its tail. The cat jumped elegantly onto the dog's back and flicked its tail haughtily. Lestrade gave another almost hysterical laugh. He reached out a hand. The cat's eyes narrowed warningly and its tail thrashed even more, but the dog stepped forward to place its head under Greg's palm. The fur was surprisingly smooth. The cat opened its mouth and hissed softly and Lestrade retracted his hand, unsure of whether it would actually attack him and deciding not to risk it.

The animals returned to their original positions and took up the activities they had been in the middle of before they were interrupted. Greg recognised a dismissal when he saw one (he'd seen enough; both from his superiors at work and Sherlock himself) and stood. He cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to leave. Sherlock – the cat – threw him an amused look and twitched an ear.

"Right, well. Bye, then," he offered, and left before he received a response.

He practically ran down the stairs and out of 221 entirely.

* * *

Upstairs, in 221B, John Watson fairly howled with laughter, still lying on the floor while Sherlock leant against the back of the chair, his deep chuckles mixing with John's high-pitched giggles.

"Oh, my God, did you see his _face_?"

Sherlock mimicked him and sent John into another fit of laughter.

"He had no idea whether to run or not, you could see it in his eyes."  
"And you changed and just _waved_ at him!"  
"I nearly lost it then, that's why I had to go make tea!"

They continued until John was hiccupping and holding his stomach and Sherlock was wiping the corners of his eyes.

"Can we _please_ turn up at the next crime scene like that and see what his face does?"

Sherlock's request made John choke and another round of giggles exploded from his chest.


	4. Names

Chapter Four  
Names

"Lestrade," Sally began, clearly at the end of her tether. "What the hell are these animals doing here? I mean, the dog - he gave a growl at being addressed as such - I can understand, but cats aren't used for _anything_."

Greg sighed.

"Look, I'm not at liberty to say anything, but just trust me on this one. There is actually a point to all this. Maybe they'll tell you one day."

The German Shepherd huffed and the cat mewled in agreement. Greg sighed again.

"Do they have _names_ at least? So I don't have to keep calling out, 'Hey, you, stop that!'? Because a surprising number of officers turn around whenever I do."

Both cat and dog turned to Lestrade and amusement was clear in their eyes.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered. "Yeah, okay. The cat is … Thunder, and the dog is Lightning."

There were a few seconds of silence before the storm hit.

'Thunder' jumped on to 'Lightning's' back for a better vantage point and they both had a go at him. Lightning barked furiously, waving his injured arm around as much as possible. Thunder yowled heatedly, somehow managing to pace on the dog's back and whip his tail back and forth quickly, as though gesturing angrily.

Sally stepped back.

"Control this," she told him, and left quickly. He felt like shouting after her and telling her he _was_ in control here, not her, and she should remember her place because he could fire her, if he so wished to do so! But he didn't, because he wasn't in control; the two animals that were making such a huge cacophony that everyone turned to stare were. He smiled and waved, trying to indicate that there was _nothing to see here, folks, please,_ please _go about your business as usual._

He turned back to the animals that were glaring at him, and held up his hands in surrender.

"What was I _supposed_ to do?"

The cat hissed something that was probably meant to mean, "_Not that!"_ and the dog barked once in agreement.

"Look, I was under pressure, alright? I doubt you could have done any better!"

The looks he received were so ridiculously scathing, he almost laughed.

_'Of course I could have done better, imbecile; I'm Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and the yard's only competent worker, even though I'm not even on their payroll.'  
'I'm John Watson. I'm made of kittens and jam. I'm an ex-army doctor _and_ I'm adorable; of course I could make up better pet names.'_

Although that probably wasn't verbatim.

He sighed and dropped his hands.

"Look, next time you're here you can do something about it, then, if it bothers you so much."

Thunder narrowed his eyes in a strangely frightening glare, then flopped down on his stomach and mewled something. That was a signal, apparently, because Lightning trotted off, still carrying the cat on his back and seeming not to notice.


	5. The Big Reveal

Chapter Five  
The Big Reveal

Lestrade knew he should have expected it. It was bound to happen one day and he supposed he could only be grateful that it didn't happen in front of more witnesses.

There had been another murder, so he had called Sherlock in. Since John had told him of their strange difference, he had felt slightly less irritated and a bit more fondly-exasperated towards the usually cold man, and it was easier for everybody when he wasn't bored, so Greg had taken to offering him more than usual to keep him out of everyone's hair. It worked most of the time; Sherlock could manage to walk through New Scotland Yard without insulting _every_ officer he met. In return, the taunts lessened in their viciousness.

Except Anderson's, of course.

Really, the man was a _complete _idiot in everything that wasn't forensics. Even then he was barely passable, and (though Greg wouldn't admit it to anyone, ever) he had only been hired because he was the nephew of Greg's boss. He suspected Sherlock had figured out the connection long ago, and that's why his insults to Anderson were always more cutting than his usual banter with Sally; at least she had worked her way up to her job.

When Lestrade thought back to it, he could pinpoint the exact moment where things took a turn for the worse – when Anderson opened his mouth.

John Watson had been remarkably good about the various comments made about the exact nature of his and Sherlock's relationship. Sally commented on it constantly (it had practically become routine and Greg suspected it was now done out of a sort of deeply hidden affection). It was openly speculated by nearly everyone at the yard, and sometimes by staff at cafes or restaurants. Even Mrs. Hudson alluded to it; let's not forget the '_if-you'll-be-needing-two-bedrooms'_ incident that occurred within minutes of John's arrival at 221B.

But, of course, Anderson pushed it too far.

There had only been a few officers at the crime scene that day; the case was wrapping up and there were always other things to be doing. Sally was there, an ever-present figure hovering annoyingly at the edge of things. Anderson was there as well – though Greg wouldn't have been able to tell you _why_. His obnoxious presence filled the room, much like his nasal voice and Lestrade knew, realistically, he couldn't expect things to go well when Anderson, Sherlock, Sally and John were all in a small room together, with no witness other than Lestrade.

Sherlock had come to the end of his explanations (accepting John's familiar praise with a brief smile), and was ready to launch himself on the killer's trail. He called for John to follow him and John was already taking his first few steps when _it_ happened.

"Christ, just put the leash on and be done with it."

Everybody froze.

John's body remained perfectly still while his head rotated. From Anderson's nervous swallow at the stare he was being given, it was clear he hadn't meant to be heard.

"What?" John's voice was calm, steady. _Deadly_. He was using his army voice; his Captain voice. His _I'm-only-going-to-ask-you-once-and-I'd-better-get-an-amazing-answer-or-I-swear-to-_God_-you'll-be-leaving-this-place-with-one-less-limb _voice_._

Possibly two, Greg thought as he glimpsed John's eyes.

"Nothing," Anderson muttered. Greg winced.

John took a step towards him and increased the authority in his tone.

"I asked you, _what did you say_?"

Anderson lifted his chin and repeated loudly,

"I said, _Christ, just put the leash on and be done with it_. And you know why, Watson?" Anderson sneered.  
"Enlighten me," John growled in response.  
"You follow him everywhere! You're always at his beck and call and it's like you're his bloody _dog_."

_Pause_.

John's face livid with rage, Sherlock behind him, eyes wide and hand reaching out to caution, to restrain. Sally's mouth open, Lestrade's set in a grim line of resignation.

_Play_.

"No, John, don't!"

But the cry came too late. In his absolute rage, John had been stripped of all logical reasoning and done what his instincts had yelled for him to do ever since he'd met the miserable man.

Snarling filled the room as a German Shepherd with three legs ploughed into Anderson and knocked him flat on his back. The dog stood over him, breath hot and heavy on his face and huge, wild eyes boring straight into his frightened ones.

"Brilliant, Anderson! Your intelligence is as astounding as ever!" Despite the words, Sherlock's voice was punctuated by worry and panic, and had a slightly hysterical edge to it. "Forget him, John, he's not worth it."

But the dog refused to move; it didn't even seem to hear him, just continued to snarl menacingly. Sherlock paced agitatedly, then stopped, face suddenly calm.

"There's nothing for it; nothing else it going to pull him out of it," he muttered to himself. "You," he pointed to Lestrade. "Control your employees."

And then a cat appeared. It sidled up to the dog, standing behind Anderson's head but deliberately not touching him. It mewled softly, coaxingly, and the dog relaxed slightly. It blinked and raised its head, glancing around the room as if it had no idea how it got there. It looked down again, and then abruptly recoiled at the sight of Anderson's petrified face so close. The dog stepped back into the middle of the room and the cat followed. It was clear the dog was panicking – Lestrade would have said it was an anxiety attack if it had been a person. The cat mewled again and then, _then_, it stood up to place its two front legs on the dog's snout and licked the fur between its eyes.

Sally choked, but was ignored.

The dog breathed out in a rumbling sigh and lowered its head so the cat could climb on its back. It did so and when it was settled comfortably, the dog trotted out of the room without a backwards glance.

"_What the hell was that?_" Sally managed, turning to Lestrade. He sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot.  
"Look, I don't really know much about it. I'll call Sherlock and John in later, but for now, nothing leaves this room, got it?"  
"Are you serious?" Anderson demanded, though the quality of his demand was ruined somewhat by the fact that he was still lying spread-eagled on the floor. "I was just assaulted by the dog that has been wandering around our crime scenes, apparently solving cases! And, in case that wasn't weird enough, both the freak and his –" he cut himself off, having seemingly learnt his lesson.  
"Doesn't leave this room," Lestrade growled, then followed the previous example and exited without looking back.

Anderson turned to Sally, but she looked away, an odd expression on her face.

"Oh, come on_._"  
"I don't think you should have called him the freak's pet. John's a nice guy, even if he does pick weird company."

Then she, too, left, leaving Anderson still lying on the floor. His head fell back with a thud.

"Oh, come _on_."


	6. Comfort

Chapter Six  
Comfort

John stormed angrily around the flat, banging doors as he took out things to make tea. He opened the fridge, took one look at the contents and slammed it shut again.

"John," Sherlock's tone was wary. John sighed and dropped his shoulders.  
"I'm so _sorry_, Sherlock. I completely lost control then and now I've ruined everything. Your brother's going to eviscerate me for ruining the secret, you're never going to get a case again, _I'll_ probably be sent to the pound or something. I'll have to find a new flat, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will want nothing to do with me. I haven't made a defensive change in years, Sherlock. _Years_. All the time spent training down the drain because _Anderson_ couldn't keep him bloody mouth shut. Christ, I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sor-"

Sherlock had been growing increasingly restless during John's self-loathing rant, and had given up and launched himself at the guilty man. He pushed his body against John's and bent his neck to press their lips together. John inhaled through his nose sharply, but his protests were soon lost against the overwhelming _Sherlock_-ness that pervaded his senses.

"It's fine, John" Sherlock managed in between kisses. "It's all fine. Anderson could get underneath anyone's skin." He pulled back and his eyes had a devilish gleam to them. "We should put him and Mycroft in a room together and see what happens."

John gave a little breathless laugh and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, their height difference making him a convenient leaning post.

"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Honestly, John. You've seen me acting enough that you know I could have acted just as surprised as the rest of them. I didn't need to shift."

John looked up.

"But you did."  
"Yes," he agreed quietly, and the smile that one word got him was blinding.

John huffed quietly, just like he did whenever he found something amusing when he shifted, and led Sherlock by the hand back to the living room.

* * *

Greg stood in front of the door at the top of the stairs, gearing himself up for whatever lay inside. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped in quietly, mouth already open to defend himself against the cutting insult he was positive Sherlock was about to throw at him.

But, _oh._

There were no harsh words waiting for him, no angry gestures or refusals to work with his team anymore. He stared and, almost unconsciously, his lips curved into a smile.

Before him, on the rug in front of the TV, a huge dog was curled protectively around a much smaller cat, both animals with their eyes closed. As if sensing the intrusion, one of the dog's ears pricked up and it raised its head to look around. It looked at Greg with one eye, gave him a nod and a little warning growl, then lowered its head and closed its eye again. Still smiling, Greg backed out of the flat, closing the door behind him gently. He'd call them in to explain later.


	7. Strays and Animal Control

Chapter Seven  
Strays and Animal Control

"Aw, mum, look he's injured! Can we keep him?"

The dog she had her arms around squirmed in her grip, trying not to hurt her, but wanting to get away nonetheless. The girl's mother saw the dog's wide eyes and took pity on the creature. Gently, she unlatched her daughter's arms from the dog's neck.

"We can't keep him, Lizzie, he's not ours."

Her lip wobbled.

"But I _want_ him, mum! His owner's not very good if he's just wandering around here all by himself! Look – he doesn't even have a collar! I'd take care of him much better, I promise I would! I'd walk him, and feed him, and bathe him, and everything, I swear!"  
"I know, honey. I'm sure you'd take very good care of him, but we can't just take a dog that belongs to someone else."

Elizabeth pouted.

"Come on, Lizzie, it's time to go. Leave the dog alone, he'll be alright."  
"How do you _know_?"  
"Look at his fur, Liz. A stray dog wouldn't have such a beautiful coat, so somebody obviously cares for him. He'll be fine, I promise."

She stared at her mother for a few seconds as if to make sure she was telling the truth. Apparently satisfied, she turned her gaze on him and sniffed sadly.

She launched herself at John and wound her arms around his neck again.

"Goodbye," she said solemnly. She looked around for her mother, who was standing to the side and looking away with a small smile. Elizabeth leaned close and said in his ear, "If you ever get tired of your owner, come and find me and I'll take care of you, okay?"

John's heart broke a little. He pulled back and licked her cheek softly. She giggled and buried her face in his fur.

"I hope you have a good owner," she whispered. When her mother led her back to the car, John sat very still and tried not to cry as Elizabeth walked backwards, holding hands with her mum and waving the whole time.

* * *

"I need a collar," John announced to the room as he marched in.

Sally choked on her coffee. Anderson's eyes widened. Greg snorted. Sherlock just smirked.

John, reviewing what he'd just said, ran a hand over his face tiredly.

"Christ," he muttered. "No, that's not- I almost got taken in as a stray, today, because I didn't have any identification. It was  
just a mother and her daughter this time, but it could be the pound next, and I really don't want to have to try and explain that one away. Nor do I want several people to lose their jobs – and possibly their identities – because of your brother, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his mouth and rolled his eyes.

"So get an engraving with your name on it," Greg suggested. John gritted his teeth.  
"I can't," he ground out.  
"Why not?"  
"Unfortunately," Sherlock cut in smoothly. "John has become a notable figure in London. He can thank his blog for that." The not-so-subtle dig showcased Sherlock's continuous disapproval for the blog and John clenched his jaw. "There has been no mention of a dog in any of John's posts so having either of our names on the tag won't work."

Everyone in the room chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock said '_either of our names_', though if anyone had looked closely, they would have seen the tips of John's ears turning red.

"It'll have to be you," he said grudgingly.  
"_Me?!" _Greg looked horrified.  
"Just think of it as being put down as an emergency number," Sherlock waved his hand airily.  
"I _am_ one of your emergency numbers! Do you two think I turn up whenever you get in trouble for the fun of it?"

Sherlock and John shared a surprised look that seemed to say, '_Well that explains an awful lot'_.

"You won't actually have to _do_ anything," John assured him. "The only possible reason you'd get called in is if I get picked up by animal control or something, which has _never_ happened before."

* * *

Lestrade walked down the row, following the staff member in front of him.

"This one yours? Lightning, I think it is?"

He looked down into the cell. A German Shepherd stared up at him with baleful eyes. Greg sighed.

"Yes, he's- that's the one."

The door was unlocked and Lestrade took the lead offered to him gingerly.

"You might want to keep an eye on him – don't let him out too much without supervision. With a bum leg he's a pretty good target for some of the more vicious strays out there."

Lightning growled ferociously and the guy – Harvey? – stepped back.

Greg tried to smile, though it came out as more of a wince, and turned to leave. Lightning refused to move.

"Oh, come on, what now?"

The dog sat and held his foreleg thirty centimetres off of the ground.

"Oh, no, him too?"

The dog nodded. Greg sighed again and turned back to the boy (Harold?), who was staring with wide eyes.

"Listen, you didn't pick up a black cat at the same time, did you?"  
"I don't thi- oh, wait, yeah. We did; Mark had to get him in and he looked a right mess when I saw him last. He yours too, then?"  
"As much as he can be, yes."  
"Right. Hang on a second, I'll go get Mark."

Hayden walked off in search of his colleague, leaving Lestrade alone with John.

"What were you doing?" he hissed. John just gave him a withering look and snapped his teeth once. Greg felt like pulling his hair out, but was stopped by the timely arrival of Hanford and Mark. He stared.

"_Jesus_." The word slipped from his lips as he took in the sight of Mark. His shirt was ripped in numerous places and his chest and arms were scratched and red. Across his cheek was a long, very deliberate cut that looked like it hurt like the _devil_. "He did that to you?"  
"Yeah," Mark sighed. "Bloody thing. He's still yowling now and it's sending all of the other cats into a right frenzy. You can't go in there without earmuffs now."

Lightning huffed in amusement.

"That's Thunder for you," Greg tried to joke, but it fell flat and nobody responded. Lightning huffed again, though Greg was pretty sure that _he _was the source of amusement, not the joke. "Well I'm here to take him, so…"  
"Thank God. I'll go get him now." Mark looked down at the remains of his shirt, then longingly at the padding used for going out on the streets. He sighed again. "Wish me luck," he muttered morosely and then left.

Greg and Hank were left to an awkward silence, the only sound Lightning's tail sweeping across the floor in long, purposeful strokes.

The yowling was heard several minutes before Mark reappeared with several new cuts, but it stopped immediately when he caught sight of the German Shepherd. Greg stifled a laugh at the undignified image of Sherlock being held under his arms. Thunder's gaze flashed to him and he opened his mouth to start howling again, but a single bark stopped it. Thunder closed his jaw resentfully and struggled in the arms of his captor, clearly wanting to be put down. Mark dropped him hurriedly and he shook himself out elegantly before trotting over to Lightning. He jumped onto the dog's back and settled himself comfortably, before turning to Greg with a stare that seemed to demand, _'Well? Why aren't we already gone from this horrid place?_'

"Is there anything I need to sign?" he asked, really hoping there wasn't

Hannibal opened his mouth to reply, hands already making their way to a folder, but Mark intercepted and said, "Nope, no paperwork at all, feel free to leave any time now."

The hands froze, but Mark's slightly deranged grin stayed in place. He could feel the cat's stare burning into his forehead, but kept his eyes on the detective.

"I suggest you get the cat a collar, and maybe micro chipped as well, so he never has to come back here."

_Ah_. Sherlock must have really done a number on him. Greg nodded, raised a hand in farewell, and allowed himself to be led out of the building by John.

* * *

Once they were around a corner and out of sight, Greg dropped the leash and watched as Sherlock and John changed back in front of him. When they were fully human again, they stood in front of the irate officer, heads bowed and grins threatening to split their faces in half.

"_What_ were you _thinking?_ Just the other day you assured me you'd never been taken in by animal control before and _you,_ I thought, would have been able to avoid capture for sure! As if it's not bad enough being on _both _of your emergency contact lists and being called out at all times of night to come and try to fix whatever enormously _stupid_ thing you've just done, I'm now legally registered as your _owner_! Do you have any idea how _messed up_ that-" Lestrade stopped suddenly. Both men raised their heads to stare at his abrupt change in attitude. "I'm _legally registered_ as your _owner_."

Sherlock and John's eyes widened. Greg smirked.

"And that means-"

They never heard what he was about to say, because they had both shifted immediately and were streaking down the alleyway and out of sight. Greg chuckled victoriously. He wouldn't be surprised if several pieces of paperwork changed mysteriously within the next twenty-four hours. Stretching leisurely, he walked out at his own pace, hoping that this would allow him to get just a few more hours of sleep than he usually would.


	8. Announcing it to the World

Chapter Eight  
Announcing it to the World

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson_

_19th September_

_Thunder and Lightning_

_Sherlock and I recently got pets. Don't worry, Mrs. H, they're not living here. We are registered as their owners though, so if you see one us with an animal, don't panic. In Sherlock's case, don't think he's taking it home to dissect it. I'll make sure he doesn't._

_Sherlock's pet is a large German Shepherd with an injured left foreleg. Even though he's quite big, he's very calm. He'll only attack when threatened._

_My pet is a black cat – I know they're supposed to be unlucky, but I've never really held much regard for superstition. Still, I wouldn't go too near him if you see him around, he's fairly vicious._

_The German Shepherd answers to Lightning while the cat (a Melanistic Bengal) answers to Thunder. Not great names, I know. Unfortunately, they were named before we received ownership of them and they won't answer to anything else that we've tried so far, much to Sherlock's disappointment; he tried calling different names for several hours and both animals were unresponsive. Sometimes his boredom can be entertaining._

_Hopefully we'll be alright owners, although I have a feeling I'll be looking after Lightning more than Sherlock._

**Comments:**

You're exaggerating again, John. I didn't sit there calling out names for hours.  
**Sherlock Holmes**19 September 17:27

Aw, that's adorable! You two are so domestic!  
**Harry Watson** 19 September 18:03

Shut up, Harry. It wasn't either of our ideas, anyway. And Sherlock, it was a long time.  
**John Watson** 19 September 18:11

Let me know if you need anybody to walk Lightning or look after either of them when you two are off chasing bad guys.  
**Mike Stamford** 20 September 15:48

"Bad guys"? Really, Mike?  
**Sherlock Holmes** 20 September 16:20

Ignore him, Mike. Thanks for the offer - I might have to take you up on it.  
**John Watson** date time 20 September 16:42

No worries, just give me a call if you need me. And don't worry – I'm used to it.  
**Mike Stamford** 20 September 16:47

* * *

"So, I hear you and Sherlock got pets recently," Greg said casually as they both watched Sherlock peering over the body in the middle of the room.

John shrugged.

"Well, you know. Getting a pet is supposed to help the soul, or something rubbish like that. Besides, he wants to keep bees at some point, so I figured it was worth the practice."

Greg turned and lowered his voice.

"Look, I'm not going to say anything, but you do realise which animal you've put each other down as owners for, right?"

John's stare was hard.

"Yes."  
"Alright. Just don't be surprised if Anderson…well, you know him."  
"I don't think he'll be a problem."

And, indeed, he wasn't. When Anderson walked into the room, he glared at Sherlock and opened his mouth, then glanced across the room at John and closed it again. The smile that appeared on John's face was triumphant and a little bit frightening.

Sally was a different story. She sidled up to John and spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

"Look, I'm sorry about him." She jerked her head in the direction of the forensics 'expert'. John raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't respond. "I know I haven't been the nicest person to either of you two, but he was way over the line. I think I'd like to try and move on a bit. From before, I mean."

John turned to her and took in her hopeful expression. His mouth turned up in a half-smile, but he turned back around without saying anything.

"I think it's really cool," she admitted quietly. "It must be an amazing feeling."

John's smile grew and became more genuine.

"It is. It's like nothing you can ever experience as a person."

She smiled back wistfully, though her eyes were a little sad. Seeing this, and listening to her fumble her way around an apology that never really happened, made him feel like he finally understood something about Sergeant Sally Donovan. Her wistful smile transformed into a smirk.

"I read your blog post," she said slyly. John winced and she laughed. "It's pretty adorable. Have you got the collar with you?"

John hesitated, then drew a leather band from his pocket. On the front of a small metal circle was a neatly engraved message.

This dog is  
in the possession of  
Sherlock Holmes.  
He answers to Lightning.

Sally read it, raised an eyebrow, and then turned it over.

If found, contact  
me at: 221B Baker Street,  
London, NW1 6XE[1].

Sally whistled. John swallowed nervously; Sally was the first person to see the collar outside of the two of them. From the way Sherlock looked over every so often, John could tell he was wondering why, exactly, he had chosen _Sally Donovan_, of all people. John didn't know either.

"Well. That's-that's…something. That's something, alright."  
"Yep."  
"What does his say?"

John coughed.

"On the front it just says the name – Thunder – and on the back it says, _If you're reading this, congratulations on getting so close. Please contact John Watson at 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE, or via my blog to return this cat. Any scratches received will be treated for free._"

Sally stared for a second, and then laughed loudly.

"Congratulations on getting so close?"

John nodded.

"That's brilliant. I love it."  
"Oh, thanks. I thought anybody who manages to get that close to him while he was a cat deserved some recognition. And he's pretty vicious, so whoever finds him is bound to get some sort of injury."  
"Wow."

They didn't say anything for a while, and the silence, though not quite comfortable, wasn't completely awkward either. Before John could think of a polite way to leave, Sherlock's frantic whirling came to a stop in front of him.

"Come on, John! The game is on!"

He ran out of the room and, with his lips stretching into a huge grin, John followed.

Sally looked after them, something in her expression a little bit sad. Lestrade joined her.

"They sure are something, aren't they?"

Sally just nodded.

* * *

[1] I used the address of the Sherlock Holmes museum. The address above is actually 239 Baker street.


	9. Keeping Up Appearances

Chapter Nine  
Keeping Up Appearances

Occasionally (because even Sherlock's homeless network managed to read John's blog and the ones who didn't were told of each update), Sherlock and John had to be seen with their respective pets to keep up appearances. When Sherlock first brought the subject up, John was…less than happy.

* * *

John stared at Sherlock incredulously.

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in despair.

"We will need to be seen taking care of our 'pets', John, it's only logical. People will need to see me walking a dog and they'll need to see you doing…whatever it is people do with cats."

John continued staring, able to process only one thing.

_…walking a dog…_

"What! Sherlock, you can't be serious! It's one thing running around London with tags on so that we're not taken in as strays, but it's _completely_ another thing for you to _walk-_" John cut himself off, unable to say the words out loud. Sherlock's lips were twisted up in an amused smirk and he had _that face_ on. The one that told John he could protest all he liked, but he would end up going along with it anyway, so wouldn't it just be better to skip the arguing?

John sighed into his tea. He drained the cup, set it down on the table and turned over in his armchair like a sulky child.

"Black," was all he said, mumbled into the fabric of the chair. Unseen, Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

* * *

For several days after their initial conversation, Sherlock didn't mention the topic again (though he did disappear for an hour to return with a bag that John thought looked like the one from the pet store around the corner).

John was sitting in his chair, laptop balanced on his knees and index fingers poking at the keyboard erratically. His view of the screen was interrupted suddenly by a long, black cord, held by Sherlock. Eventually, John's eyes focused and he realised Sherlock was dangling a leash from his fingers. He pouted at it. Sherlock's eyes had a wicked gleam to them and he opened his mouth, but John spoke before he could say anything.

"If you say the word _'walkies'_ I will kill you with my bare hands. Or maybe it'll be something more creative; maybe I'll put arsenic in your tea. _Or,_ I might just shoot you one day. Probably in the near future."  
"Most people would find it disturbing how much detail you went into, or the fact that you just thought of multiple ways to kill your flatmate without me even saying anything."  
"You were thinking it though, which, from you, is enough."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, not bothering to reply (which is how John knew he'd won) and jangled the leash.

"Alright, alright," John grumbled and closed his laptop. He put it away, stood, and took out the collar from his pocket. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I figured it was better to have it on hand in case I needed it!" he defended. Sherlock sniffed again, and took the proffered collar. He waited until John had shifted and was sitting still, then knelt and slipped it around his neck. After ensuring it was secure, but not so tight it would strangle him, Sherlock clipped the leash on and rose fluidly to his feet. Without any prompting John stood as well and led the way out of the flat, pausing on the landing so that Sherlock could lock the door. Once the key was in his pocket, Sherlock flicked the leash like a horse's reins.

"Come on, _Lightning_," he smirked and John growled softly as they made their down the stairs (John navigating them carefully with three legs) and out of 221.

* * *

It was the afternoon, so the sun was out (as much as it could ever be in London during the Autumn). It wasn't cold, but the brisk winds were cool on Sherlock's skin and they ruffled Lightning's fur, so they walked quickly. They had decided not to go too far, so they went once around the block – stopping once so that another dog could sniff Lightning and Sherlock could look on, highly amused, as John tried to get away – before reaching 221 again. Sherlock opened the door, and the minute it closed after them, John changed and stood up tall, stretching. He reached up to his neck and unhooked the leash. He handed it to Sherlock and slipped the collar back into his pocket.

"I hate other dogs."

Sherlock laughed. John continued as they walked up the stairs to their flat.

"I mean it – they come up to me, thinking I'm just an ordinary German Shepherd, and then they get a whiff of me and start freaking out. What's _worse_, is that it happens when I'm normal as well!"  
"I'll remember that if we're ever on a case where there's an annoying dog. Hey – do you think it would work on Anderson?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not – although if I could scare him away I'd have done it by now."

Sherlock waved a hand airily, and John stopped in the doorway.

"What? You actually want to keep him around?"  
"Well, not really, but he's proving to be an excellent source of amusement. Every time he sees you he flinches and then runs off muttering an excuse to get away. It's _highly_ entertaining."  
"It's nice to know I'm good for something."  
"And tea, John. Always tea," Sherlock called from the living room as John made his way to the kitchen. He stopped, considered it, then shrugged and continued towards the kettle.

At least there was always tea.

* * *

A/N:

You guys are in luck (I guess...if being in luck means that there is more of this story to read...). I'm ridiculously bored and everyone else in the house is doing something important, so it's up to the internet to entertain me. ...although this is sort of more me entertaining you. Oh well, doesn't matter! It's something for me to do, at any rate.

Thanks for all of the favourites/follows/reviews etcetera, so on, so forth, you know what I mean. Honestly, it means a lot. I get a bit fuzzy everytime I get an email.

Cheers,  
foxboxtango97


	10. Purposefully Difficult

Chapter Ten  
Purposefully Difficult

John considered his toast as he sat at their kitchen table (miraculously clean, for once).

"What do cats do?" he mused out loud.  
"What?" Sherlock muttered, not looking up from where he was bent over a microscope on the other side of the table (semi-clean, at least).  
"You know; dogs get walked, what do cats do?"  
"Laze around, mostly."  
"Right."

Sherlock deigned to look up.

"From what research I've done, it seems they lie around, eat and sleep. As well as other necessary functions, of course. This is because most owners view adult cats as independent and low maintenance[1]. However, this is untrue, and cats need to be played with to develop both physically and mentally."

John stared.

"You do know you didn't need to recite a website to me, don't you?"  
"Well if I'm going to do something, I might as well do it properly."

_Fair enough_.

"So…what do they _do_?"  
"Games and such; generally chasing a harmless object like a feather, some string or occasionally a light."  
"Do they do anything outside?"  
"Some of the more well-trained cats will go for a walk, but it's unusual to see and the majority of cats won't enjoy it."  
"Right."

John stared some more, then asked a carefully phrased question that would hopefully allow him an answer without piles of unwanted information.

"Is there anything that we can do outside, with you as Thunder and me as a human being, that isn't ridiculous and will show people that I own a pet and am capable of caring for it?"  
"Not really."  
"Right."  
"Just put something in your blog about how entertaining it is to watch a cat chase after a light and get frustrated at not being able to catch it."  
"Yeah, I'll do that, thanks."

_Why couldn't you have just _said_ that?_

"Really John, must you take the joy out of everything?"

John pointed a finger at him.

"I knew it! I _knew_ you enjoyed being difficult!"

Sherlock blinked.

"Of course, John, you _have_ seen me at crime scenes before, haven't you? I even told you I pickpocket Lestrade when he's being annoying. Honestly, you're on terrible form today."

_Honestly, you're on terrible form today_, John mimicked in his head. From the amused glance Sherlock gave him over his microscope, he knew exactly what had just passed through John's head. John scowled and returned to eating his (now cold) toast.

Seconds after Sherlock dropped his head again to stare down the barrel of his microscope, a ballpoint pen bounced off his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered, "How mature of you."

Hidden behind his tea, John smiled.

* * *

[1] I took this from a website: .ca/cats/tips/tip-65-cat-games-playing-with-your-cat/. ::shrug::


	11. A Christmas Interlude

Chapter Eleven  
A Christmas Interlude

John struggled to find a gift for Sherlock; the man never seemed to want for anything. He had multitudes of science equipment and John wouldn't know where to begin looking for something new. He had thought about a new scarf for a while, but dismissed the idea quickly – the scarf Sherlock had was of excellent quality. It was thick and warm, the fabric was soft and the colour suited him. The scarf had become a part of him, just like his coat, and John knew no item of clothing he could afford would be worth it. A new bow might have been considered a good present, but John knew next to nothing about string instruments, having only played the clarinet in school, and Sherlock seemed quite attached to the one he already had.

As Christmas drew closer and John made yet another trip to Tesco's for various food/experiment items (he had made sure Sherlock knew that those were _very_ separate categories), he thought desperately about giving him a gift card, or even just money, because then it would be out of his hands and Sherlock could do whatever the hell he wanted with it. John stopped briefly at the lights, checking his watch and glancing around at the various desperate shoppers searching for last-minute gifts. A businessman marched into a stationary shop, a harried mother being dragged by two children reluctantly entered a sweet shop and a young woman smiled at her boyfriend as she coerced him into the pet store.

The crossing light blinked on, but John ignored it.

_Could he?_ _Did he dare to?_

John's lips stretched into a wide smile.

* * *

"You're fantastic, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered and kissed her cheek. She chuckled softly and tapped him on the arm.  
"It was nothing, dear, I'm happy to help," she returned fondly, then hastened to add, "But I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiled at the familiar reminder.

"Would you be able to keep it here until Christmas? It's just if I bring it up there he'll know right away and I'd like to keep it a secret for as long as possible."  
"Of course, but it's not my fault if he figures it out from the way I'm standing, or something ridiculous like that. Goodness knows he's probably got all the different fabrics they use lined up in that funny little head of his. I'm sure I don't know how he does it."  
"Nor do I, Mrs. Hudson. Nor do I."

A thumping came from upstairs and they both looked at the ceiling.

"I'd better go and make sure he's not setting fire to anything."  
"It's coming out of the rent if he does," she warned, but it had an exasperated affection to it.

John grinned and kissed her cheek again, before running up the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock! Put that down!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she put John's gift away and busied herself making tea. Her tenants were more than a little bit crazy, but they were both dear to her, and she didn't know what she'd do without them.

* * *

Sherlock was having a surprisingly difficult time figuring out what John wanted. Of course, there was no end to things that John _wanted_, but it was proving much harder than he'd originally thought to find the right gift. He could get John another jumper, he mused. The man was certainly fond enough of them (though he personally had no idea _why_), but it seemed impersonal. John seemed to want a girlfriend, if the constant glances and appraisals of _all the women passing by_ were any indication, but Sherlock's powers only went so far (and besides…no). Perhaps a new tea set? But no, they'd agreed not to have anything too expensive, because Sherlock's experiments swallowed up all kinds of things and John had told him firmly _he_ could replace anything he broke (though that never really happened, because Sherlock was lazy and John couldn't live without tea).

It was in one of many moments of brilliance that the idea came to him. It was simple, but even simple things could be a good idea, Sherlock supposed. He cringed a little. _Sometimes_.

But John would appreciate it, he knew, and that was the important thing (this time).

* * *

John kept glancing at their bush as he puttered around the flat (there really was no better word for it; he simply puttered, and it quite amused Sherlock, if he were honest). Sherlock had kept his present in the packaging, so all John could see was a rectangular prism wrapped in paper with skulls on it. He left the living room to tidy the kitchen for a few minutes, but soon puttered back in to his armchair.

"Staring at it won't help you figure out what it is."  
"It _might_."  
"If you were me, perhaps, but I really don't think it will."

John didn't bother taking offence or responding to it, so silence reigned for a minutes before John lost patience.

"I wish they'd _hurry up_!"  
"Honestly John, it's like you've reverted back to childhood."  
"That's what Christmas does to people, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth and John rolled his eyes.

"Not you, I know, but _I'm_ excited."  
"Well, at least it will be interesting to see Anderson excited by something. Other than his wife being out of town."

John laughed, and only felt a little bit guilty.

* * *

The buzzer _buzzed_.

John practically ran to the door, almost bouncing up and down with excitement each time a guest arrived. Lestrade raised one of his eyebrows as he took John in, and then raised the other one when he saw the rest of the flat. It was _tidy_, for one thing, and nearly every available surface was decorated. Sherlock lounged on the couch in the midst of it all, no different from usual, except…

Lestrade laughed loudly and John grinned beside him.

"Brilliant, John."

Sherlock scowled from under the Santa hat perched on his head. He turned his eyes on John.

"Yes, you can take it off now."

Within seconds the hat was gone, presumably stuffed under a pillow somewhere.

* * *

Sally and Anderson were the only two guests not to arrive yet and Sherlock muttered something about '_typical incompetency_' that nobody really protested. Lestrade was placed on the spare armchair, and John had managed to make Sherlock sit up like a normal person. Molly was chatting to Mrs. Hudson by the table and John had graciously (_cautiously_, _unwillingly_) allowed Mycroft his armchair.

(The German Shepherd in him growled at someone encroaching on his territory, but John pushed it down firmly, if only for the sake of Christmas.)

Though usually polite, John was getting frustrated at not being able to open gifts yet. His phone beeped and he opened it to see two nearly identical messages.

'_So sorry to cancel on you, John, but my family called and they want me to come over. Sorry for the late notice. Merry Christmas! Sally.'  
'Sorry, John, can't make it. Dad wants me to meet my nephews. Have a good one.'_

"Sally and Anderson can't make it; they've both been taken away to see family."  
"Oh, really? I didn't know they'd made it official."

Sherlock glanced at John and he flashed him a brief, amused grin that no one else saw, before putting his phone away.

"_Anyway_, this means we can do gifts!" He barely restrained himself from saying 'presents'; Sherlock had been right, Christmas did reduce him to a six year old.

John practically bounded to the table, where everybody had placed their gifts. Somehow, he had managed to persuade them to participate in a Secret Santa exchange (though he remembered Sally complaining about getting Anderson, and him hoping to get into Sally's good books again with a so-called 'gift' of…dubious quality), and they had grudgingly bought a gift for their selected person. John handed each of them out and then sat cross-legged on the floor next to Sherlock's legs, eagerly holding his own present.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's enthusiasm even as Molly and Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. It was almost refreshing to see John, who had been listless and quiet on his return from Afghanistan, so excited about something.

At a silent signal, everybody unwrapped the paper, except for John, who ripped it off in one go. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, both at John and the book he was now holding. It was obviously from Lestrade, because Mycroft was the only other person there who knew and he, at least, would never stoop so low as to give him a book on '_German Shepherd Virtues: Lessons Learned from Our Faithful Companions_'.

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered to the smirking D.I next to him, but started thumbing through the pages regardless.

Lestrade felt a smug satisfaction in Sherlock's reaction and turned to his own gift. Which was a gun.

To be fair, it was a very nice gun, far better than the police-standard one he had been issued with when he began his job. It was also very expensive. He looked up to see Mycroft inspecting his package with a bemused expression on his face. He seemed to register Greg's stare because he looked up and met his gaze. Lestrade nodded gratefully, and Mycroft nodded back, then returned to being bemused.

_A picture frame._ He supposed it was a good one, as far as picture frames go; the glass was clean and bordered by a polished, dark brown wood. _Perhaps Anthea will like it._ He turned to Molly and bestowed a carefully calculated '_thank-you'_ smile on her. She gave him a bright one back.

The lab coat was rather gorgeous. It was crisp, and white, and clean. Her old one had been getting rather dirty, and there _was_ only so much stain remover could do. She turned it over.

"Oh!" she gave a delighted gasp as she saw the small _M.H_ sewn in cursive on the breast pocket. She glanced up to Sherlock, but he was buried in a book. Her smile faltered a little and she held the coat a fraction tighter.

Beside her, Mrs. Hudson gave a pleased titter as she unearthed a beautiful tea set from the wrapping paper. It was a painted deep blue, with lighter flowers decorating the body. The cups were similarly decorated.

"Thank you, dear!" she directed to John. "I'll call Mrs. Turner around tomorrow and use it then!"

He gave her an equally pleased sentiment, grinning spectacularly at the kettle he had been given and laughing at how their similar ideas. He nudged Sherlock's knee.

"Oi, you. You have an extra present. An extra one apart from the one I'm giving you." He raised the kettle. "You can have our old one for experiments, but you're _not_ to use this for anything other tea. Actually, just don't make tea, because I don't trust you near this kettle."  
"I'm capable of making tea, John."  
"Yeah, but don't."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Fine by me."

John realised he had doomed himself to a life of making tea.

* * *

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson called and he rose to his feet to go and talk to her. Sherlock stared speculatively as she gestured to the floor. John grinned, kissed her cheek, told anyone listening he would be "back in a mo'", and then ran down the stairs.

_Ah,_ Sherlock realised. John was getting his gift. Sherlock stood smoothly and collected his from under their pathetic 'tree'. He was aware of the others watching him curiously, but ignored them in favour of guessing what John had gotten him. It would have to be reasonably large; not so huge that he couldn't get it up the stairs by himself, but big enough that he couldn't smuggle it past Sherlock.

John huffed a bit as he reached the stairs and paused, knowing Sherlock would be trying to figure out what he'd bought him.

"You, close your eyes!" he called before entering the flat.  
"Really, John?"  
"Humour me."

John heard Sherlock sigh and was about to enter when-

"_Actually_ close them, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

John grinned and entered after hearing Sherlock sigh again, more violently than before. He walked in and stopped in front of Sherlock.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now."

They swapped gifts, John ripping open the paper and laughing when he finds a chew-toy and Sherlock merely glancing at the box in his arms before letting out an amused, "Really, John, a scratching post?"

Lestrade made an odd choking noise and they started giggling like they do after solving a crime and chose to ignore the strange looks they were getting from Molly and Mrs. Hudson (who didn't know what it meant, even though she helped hide it) because they never signed up for 'normal' and it's never really expected from them.

* * *

After everybody left and John collected various cups, mugs and glasses and placed them in the sink, they shifted. John settled himself down in front of the TV, absentmindedly gnawing on the rubber bone, and Sherlock explored his scratching post, climbing through the various holes and eventually sitting on top like a king surveying his kingdom.

"I just forgot my…"

Molly paused in the doorway at the sight before her. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, but then she closed it deliberately and merely picked up her jacket from the coat rack. She left again with a confused, "Okay", muttered as she closed the door.

John glanced at Sherlock, who gave what could be called a shrug, if a cat's body was designed for shrugging, and John just thumped his tail once and turned back to the TV.

It had been a good Christmas.

* * *

A/N:

The book I mentioned? It's a real book. I found it on Amazon. You can look it up, I swear.


	12. Purring

Chapter Twelve  
Purring

After Lestrade discovered just how unusual the tenants of 221B were (well, he had known Sherlock was completely mad for ages, and his suspicions about John's sanity had been confirmed when he saw John giggling after the crime scene), his eyes were opened to how much a part of them their animals were.

Sherlock moved very much like a cat; smooth and agile, leaping from building to building across gaps that looked just that bit too big. He paced when agitated, his coat flowing out dramatically and serving the purpose of a tail flicking angrily. He constantly turned his head when attempting to figure something out, as though he was trying to move ears that weren't there.

But the biggest surprise by far was when Lestrade saw something that he would remember until his very last days. Sherlock and John were off to the side of the crime scene, in a little post-case bubble that always seemed to leave them giggling and high on adrenaline. He wasn't meant to be watching and he's fairly sure no one else was. They were both smiling hugely, John absentmindedly stretching his right leg while listening to Sherlock explain his brilliance.

_That's the frailty of genius; it needs an audience_.

Sherlock finished his explanation with a wild gesture that had John ducking, and then laughing at the sheepish expression on Sherlock's face. And then John reached up and _placed his hand on Sherlock's curls_.

Lestrade's eyes widened comically.

John's grin remained as he rubbed the space between where Sherlock's cat ears would appear. He closed his eyes in bliss and, even from this distance, Greg could hear the rumbling.

Sherlock was _purring_.

His eyes opened lazily and his mouth stretched into a contented smile, and then John was taking his hand away and giggling and Sherlock's expression turned sour, though still heavily tainted with affection, and Greg had to turn away.

What he had witnessed was more than just a silly, teasing gesture. It was trust, and a fondness for each other that Greg rarely saw between anyone, let alone 'Sherlock the high-functioning-sociopath'. Greg didn't think he would ever understand it, didn't think _anyone_ would ever understand it; it was just _SherlockandJohn_.

And that, really, was all there was to it.


	13. First Calling

Chapter Thirteen  
First Calling

"Sherlock, we need you to get down here."  
"What kind of body is it?"

Lestrade hesitated and for several seconds, nothing but static crackled over the phone.

"Come on, quickly!" Sherlock snapped.  
"There's no body."

Sherlock stopped pacing around the flat and turned to stare at John, who raised an eyebrow at him (John had no idea what was going on – it was hard enough listening to Sherlock on a good day; when you were only hearing his side of a phone conversation, there was a lot open for misinterpretation).

"What do you mean?"  
"Just get down here, Sherlock, and for God's sake, bring John along."  
"What? Why?"  
"Just do it!" Lestrade said, exasperated, and hung up. Sherlock stared at the screen, before placing it in his pocket and dashing to the hall for his coat.  
"Come on, John, quickly!"

* * *

"_Christ_," John muttered as he stared at the message on the wall in front of him.

_Come and get me, Sherlock_.

There were two pairs of symbols underneath the message as well, but John had never seen anything like them before.

"Ancient Chinese numbering system," Sherlock said as he flew past John.  
"Oh, right."

Sherlock danced around, flying from one place to the next in an effort to find something useful. As he passed by, John could hear Sherlock muttering under his breath.

"What is he doing? Is it him? If it's not him, who is it? And what are _they_ doing? It's not…there are too many variables! I can't think."

John grimaced in sympathy – Sherlock's brain was crowded normally, with thoughts flying through and him attempting to listen to _every single one_, and sometimes it just got too overwhelmed. He stopped suddenly and rocked back on his heels.

"Anderson! Get out!"  
"What?"  
"Get _out_!"

He opened his mouth to refuse, but John shot him a quelling glare and he stomped out. John raised an eyebrow in self-satisfaction.

When the crime scene was cleared of errant police officers, Sherlock shifted and stalked through the crime scene, occasionally stopping to sniff certain areas. John stood straight and looked around, noting each exit and entrance, and any hidden nooks where someone could be concealed. He lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling with furrowed eyebrows, but there was nowhere to hide. He frowned and lowered his head again.

"Ah!"

Sherlock had shifted back and was standing directly in front of John.

"The aerosol spray paint. That's the only thing I know. The type. It doesn't connect to anything! There's _nothing there_, John. Nothing. Moriarty – whoever it is – didn't leave a single trace. There's no scent at all. I don't…know…I don't know, John. And it _kills_ me to say that."

John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before he could continue. He saw it in Sherlock's eyes – it really did kill him to admit it, to think Moriarty had somehow hidden something from his successfully.

"Look, you're not going to be able to do any more here. Let's just go back to the flat and if you don't want to go back through the police…"

Sherlock didn't say anything in return, just nodded and leapt from four black paws onto John's shoulder. John's hand reached up and stroked his tail gently. Breathing deeply in through his nose, he walked out of the room and under the tape.


	14. Second Calling

Chapter Fourteen  
Second Calling

"Sherlock."  
"_What_?"  
"There's been another one."

He sighed, and his mouth twisted.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll follow behind the police car."  
"Alright," Lestrade agreed. He went to leave, then stopped and turned back. "Look, it's…you're going to get frustrated, and it's probably going to be justified, but…let John know, alright?"

Sherlock stared at him for several seconds and then turned away and flounced into his bedroom, presumably to collect his coat and scarf. Lestrade sighed, knowing Sherlock probably wouldn't contact John at all. Well, at least _he_ had John's number. If worst came to worst, he could probably get John to the scene within half an hour, citing official police business to get him out of work.

* * *

"Anderson, I need you over here," Lestrade shouted, taking the few precious moments before Sherlock arrived to talk to the forensics expert. He jogged over, the ever present sneer on his face. _The wind must have blown at a inopportune time when he was a child_, Lestrade thought to himself.

"What?"  
"You've read the message, haven't you?"  
"Yeah. I told you we needed to put a stop to it, and now the freak's got some sort of mad game going on with another psychopath and they're using London as their playing ground."

That was actually a reasonably eloquent sentence. _Well done, Anderson_.

"Yeah, well, knowing Sherlock, he's not going to be particularly happy about it, and Watson's at work at the moment, so he'll be off his leash, so to speak, and ready to attack."  
"And?"  
"And you usually set him off, so I would suggest high-tailing it out of the immediate vicinity before he physically injures you – and I'm not willing to go up against Mycroft Holmes when he's got his mind set on protecting his baby brother."  
"I'm not his baby brother, Lestrade, and he's right, Anderson, you should leave, preferably before I scratch your eyes out; it's annoying and messy to clean up."

Lestrade hoped he wasn't speaking from experience. (Though knowing him…)

"Although it wouldn't be a great loss, seeing as you rarely use them anyway," Sherlock added as he sailed past and under the tape.  
"Too late," Lestrade muttered to himself. He shot Anderson a look. "Leave now, while you still can."

Anderson contemplated it for a minute, then shrugged and walked off.

"But you're not going to get paid leave!" Lestrade shouted at his back. He didn't get a reply.

Greg sighed to himself, squared his shoulders and walked after Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of the freshly vandalised wall with his hands clasped behind his back. He stared at the message with narrowed eyes.

_Do you need a clue, Sherlock?_

The symbols were there again as well, though only one pair this time.

"Two hundred and seventeen, and seven. What is he up to?"

Sherlock appeared calmer than last time, but there was tension rippling underneath the surface. He was holding something in, possibly several somethings, and Lestrade _really_ didn't want to be around when he unleashed them. He wanted John Watson to deal with it while _he_ was at home, drinking a beer and trying to relax.

"Have you got any ideas?" Greg asked cautiously, not wanting to be the one to set him off. Instead, Sherlock turned to him with clear eyes and a blank expression.  
"Yes," he said pleasantly. _Right_.  
"Want to share?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"The symbols are numbers in an Ancient Chinese dialect. Moriarty, if that's who it is, has used a book code."  
"Okay…and that means?"  
"The _numbers_, J- Lestrade."

_That was almost a slip-up._

"The numbers relate to a specific book – the first number is the page, the second number is the word. All I need to do is find the book he's using and then I can translate the cipher."  
"And do you have the book?"  
"Maybe."  
"Meaning?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I don't know what it is yet, Lestrade, that's the problem."

And _there_ was a bit of the anger and frustration he had been waiting for.

"Right. Well, that's okay. I'm sure you'll figure out what it is soon."  
"God, is that your usual bedside manner? That's _awful_. Never, ever comfort someone again."

Aaaand he's back.

"I'll keep that in mind, Sherlock. Thanks."

* * *

A/N:

I am having way too much fun insulting Anderson. Way too much.


	15. Letting it Out

Chapter Fifteen  
Letting it Out

"I was thinking, Sherlock."  
"Oh, really? How delightful."

John rolled his eyes.

"You seemed tense at the crime scene the other day, and I know it's not really conducive to The Work, so I thought I'd…tell you how _I_ make it stop."

Sherlock remained lying on the couch, but he raised his head and one of his eyebrows, so John took that as a good sign.

"After I came back from Afghanistan, but before I met you, I wasn't really doing well. I was pretty depressed, I didn't have anything to work towards, I thought about _leaving_ a couple times."

Leaving. Leaving London. Leaving England. Leaving the mortal coil.

"And then I managed to find a release, of sorts. When Lestrade came over, I told him I didn't like shifting in front of other people – I wasn't lying. I didn't like anybody else seeing me when I shifted, but when I was in my flat by myself, it was a different story. Some days, when it got too much, I'd just shut all of the curtains and shift. I'd stay there for the whole day, not going out or doing anything at all, and I'd sort of _become_ the dog – instead of just being in its body. And it worked."

Sherlock looked contemplative.

"So, if you ever need to let it all out, I'd be happy to – God, this sounds weird – sort of treat you like a cat, for a day."

John screwed up his face and shook his head in exasperation at himself.

"I think…that would be…acceptable."

John looked at him.

"Really? Okay! Um, so…good. Right. Well, we need milk, so I'll just go…grab some, shall I? _Bye!_"

Sherlock laughed as John scrambled for his coat and jogged down the steps and out the front door.

* * *

"Sherlock? Lestrade texted me, said there was another one and he was calling you in. I would've come with you, but I've missed work quite a bit in the last month, and Sarah hinted that if I wanted to keep my job I should try to come in as much as I can."

He flicked on the light and frowned when there was no answering call.

"Meow."

Startled, he looked down and saw a black cat stared up at him.

"Um…"

The cat mewled again and slunk forward to wind around John's legs.

"Oh! Right. 'Lo Thunder!"  
"Meow."

John walked into the kitchen, closing the door behind him and setting his work stuff onto the counter. He flicked on the kettle and took down a mug. As an afterthought, he grabbed a shallow bowl and held it up.

"Thirsty?"

Thunder mewled in agreement, so John filled the bowl and set it on the floor. Thunder sat and dropped his head, lapping contentedly. The sound was kind of soothing, in a weird way, and John was relaxed as he leant against the counter and waited for the water to boil.

Several minutes later, having refilled the water in the bowl and moved it to the living room, John wandered into the living room and sat in his armchair with his tea. He located the TV remote and turned it on, flicking through channels with the sound down low. He set the channel on a horribly typical soapie and tuned out, enjoying the warmth of the cup between his hands and the feeling of doing nothing after a day at work. A quiet mewl brought him out of his reverie and he looked down to see Thunder staring up at him.

"Hello."

Thunder's tail waved and he crouched, then sprang up onto the arm of John's chair.

"Yes?"

He simply walked onto John's lap and sat down by way of response. John raised an eyebrow, then lifted a hand and set it down on Thunder's back. A soft cat sigh of contentment assured him he was doing the right thing. He smiled to himself and stroke down his spine firmly. A purr greeted his ears and John giggled to himself.

"This is nice."

John's hand dipped down and scratched Thunder's lower back. His tail stretched straight out and his purring increased tenfold.

John grinned and continued petting Thunder until they both fell asleep.


	16. Third Calling

Chapter Sixteen  
Third Calling

Lestrade sighed as he knocked on the door of 221B Baker Street for what felt like the millionth time that week. John opened it, saw who it was, and – rolling his eyes as he did so – invited him in.

"Sherlock!" he yelled up the stairs. Sherlock appeared after several seconds. His hair was tussled from sleep and his blue silk dressing gown hung loose on his frame. He yawned and stretched as he clomped down the stairs.

"What?" he mumbled.  
"New case for you."

He ambled into the living room, waved vaguely at Greg and plonked himself down on the couch.

"You're looking much more relaxed."  
"It's amazing what a good night's rest can do," John said dryly, looking pointedly at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and turned over to face Lestrade.  
"What have you got?"

Greg shrugged.

"The same as the other two – there's a new message and new symbols, but the format's the same. The paint's the same as well, I don't know if that's important."  
"What's the message?" John asked. Sherlock eyed the D.I. curiously.  
"'_Every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain, Sherlock_.'"

Both occupants of 221B raised their eyebrows. Greg shrugged.

"I thought you might have an idea of what it's meant to mean."

John shook his head and Sherlock's narrowed eyes told him all he needed to know.

"It's a clue, though," Sherlock muttered. "It has to mean _something_. He wouldn't do it if it didn't mean something – that's not how he plays the game."

Something in John lifted at that: 'that's not how _he_ plays the game'. Sherlock had managed to separate himself from Moriarty, after _weeks_ of John telling him they were in no way similar except extremely intelligent.

"We'll keep it in mind, Greg, and let you know if we come up with anything."

Lestrade nodded and made his way back through the flat.

"Thanks for coming around," John called.  
"No worries – thanks for keeping him relaxed!" he returned.  
"No worries!"

Greg laughed, and wondered when he had started coming around so much it was normal for him to let himself out.

* * *

John turned to Sherlock once he heard the front door shut.

"You're unusually quiet."  
"Hmm…"  
"Sherlock? What's up?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I _may_ have to do something I really, really didn't want to have to do."  
"What, call Mycroft?"  
"_Worse_."  
"Worse than Mycroft?"

John's eyes widened. He hadn't thought Sherlock felt anything was worse than having to deal with his brother. He suddenly had a very distinct, ominous feeling that he was _not_ going to like Sherlock's new plan of action.

"Yes. This person is infinitely worse than my brother, mainly because I can at least call on Mummy if he gets too annoying. _This_ person answers to no one and enjoys it."  
"God."  
"Whatever you do, don't react to anything – it will only make it worse, and then it will _never stop_."  
"Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea, then? Only, you're not making it sound good."  
"Well, I thought it was only fair to warn you."

And with that, he rose fluidly from his position on the couch (John had no idea how) and vanished into his room, presumably to make the dreaded phone call. John stared at the wallpaper, contemplating everything he'd just been told and, to prepare himself mentally for what he was _sure_ would be a remarkably harrowing experience, went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea.


	17. Miss Irene Adler

Chapter Seventeen  
Miss Irene Adler

John was sitting at the kitchen table, the anticipation coiling in his stomach making it difficult for him to eat his toast. He stared morosely at the jam slathered on the now cold bread. Today was the day their mysterious contact would be arriving. Sherlock had refused to tell him anything about the person apart from the warnings he'd given the first time he (or she, John had no idea) had been mentioned.

Sherlock had deigned to join him that morning, perhaps as a sign of support, but probably just because he wanted to steal John's food (he'd already made a bowl of cereal and a piece of toast, only to find they'd disappeared when he sat down to eat them). He had apparently eaten his fill and was now hidden behind the newspaper, rustling it every so often when he turned the page. John switched his gaze from the strawberry jam to the article on the front page of the newspaper. Sherlock peeled it off and handed it to him. John sighed.

Their doorbell buzzed once, twice, three times, _four _times.

"Christ – not patient, this contact of yours."

Sherlock lowered the paper and grimaced.

"Not especially, no."

_Well, here goes nothing_, John thought as he rose to greet their houseguest for the next however many days (he hoped it wouldn't come to weeks – really, really hoped). Sherlock stood as well.

"I'll go down!" he said hastily. "It's alright, I'll go down, don't worry about it."

And then he flew out of the flat and down the stairs.

_Oh, God_.

Whoever it is must be _awful_.

* * *

"Well," she said, walking in. "I think this will do nicely. I don't know why you tried to tell me to stay in a hotel, Sherlock, I really don't. One would almost think you didn't want me here."  
"Oh, no, one mustn't think that," Sherlock muttered helplessly.

John checked himself, still in the kitchen, and (once deeming himself acceptable) marched into the living room with a military stature that fell away as soon as he saw _who_, exactly, was staying with them.

Irene Adler, as she introduced herself, was beautiful, to put it simply. She was long, and lean, though not unhealthily thin, and had beautiful hair (John was a bit of a sucker for nice hair). It was pinned up, then, in an elegant bun with twists and curls and no visible pins. John had a feeling his jaw had dropped. He might also have been drooling.

"You must be Doctor Watson," she smiled at him, holding out a hand. Behind her, Sherlock glowered.

"Er, yes. How d'you do?" He took the proffered hand, shook it once, let it go and attempted a smile. He had a feeling she was judging him and, whatever it was, he was failing. Badly.  
"Just fine, thank you. And you?"  
"Reasonably well."

John stood awkwardly. Neither Sherlock nor Irene seemed uncomfortable (typical).

"How did you meet Sherlock?"

That had to be a safe-ish topic, right? Obviously not, if Sherlock's darkening glower was anything to go by.

"Oh, we go _way_ back."

John felt a stab of irritation.

"Oh?"  
"Yes; I stole some rather alarming photos from a royal family and he attempted to get them back."

_Ah._

While John was nowhere near as smart or observant as either of the Holmes brothers, he did still pick up on some things. And if it weren't obvious from Irene Adler's phrasing, Sherlock certainly made it so when he clenched his fists by his sides.

_Attempted_.

Not one of his successful cases, then. Shame, because John was rapidly getting annoyed at their visitor, despite her beauty, and he would have considered it a victory of sorts if Sherlock had taken her down.

John stopped, went back over that thought and frowned to himself mentally. Okay, Sherlock was right. He shouldn't have reacted to anything, shouldn't have asked any questions, shouldn't have even looked at her. And now she knew what to do to get him to react. John knew that peace would be a difficult thing to come by in the near future at 221B.

Poor Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

A/N:

Was it obvious? I think it was. Not that I really mind - I'm not one for subtetly or mystery, so it was never going to be a big surprise, I don't think. Oh well - can't blame me for trying.


	18. Dogs and Foxes Don't Get On

Chapter Eighteen  
Dogs and Foxes Don't Get On

Irene Adler had a marvellous talent. Somehow, she had found a way to not only annoy John, but to irritate Sherlock at the same time. John wasn't quite sure when it had started, though he had a feeling it was approximately two hours after she had arrived.

Sherlock had loaned her his bed, telling her he didn't sleep in it often and if he needed to he could kip on the couch or borrow John's. (The truth was he didn't want her sleeping in John's bed and getting her scent all over his sheets and in his room)

John hated her being in Sherlock's room for the same reason.

She had taken to the room with something akin to glee, shifting into her vixen form without care and exploring everything she could find. John had to physically bite his tongue to stop himself snapping out orders for 'guest etiquette'. Sherlock was similarly strained. Neither of them could retreat within their own heads to relax, as she would appear within minutes, using her remarkable skill to bring them out of any meditation they had achieved with very few words.

What was worse, for John, was the wave of possessiveness that seemed to rise up in him whenever he saw her. She was covered in the smell of Sherlock (even though John had bought new sheets for his bed, specifically for her to use, his bedroom still carried his scent and her exploring had got her covered with it). Every instinct of John's told him she was encroaching on his territory. He had to remind himself that Sherlock wasn't a possession, and would no doubt be highly offended if John mentioned he thought of him as 'his'. (What he didn't know was that Sherlock quite liked the idea, in a not-at-all-weird way, and was quite happy to give his life to John's, as long as he knew it both ways)

Not least of all the problems was that neither Sherlock nor Irene worked and John did, so (despite Sherlock's numerous protests, which were John's only comfort) Irene became Sherlock's 'case companion'. The first time she appeared with him, neither Sally nor Anderson had managed to say anything through their shock, and Greg felt deeply unsettled. This meant Irene saw Sherlock at his best (though he maintained he was functioning at a much lower standard than usual with her as John's replacement – John reminded him he wasn't a machine and therefore didn't 'function', he lived, but couldn't help feel very pleased) and took over from John as personal worshipper. Only John did it much better.

His words of praise were often just that – words, and occasionally short sentences that outlined how amazing he thought Sherlock was, though they were not always intentional. Irene's idea of it included making lurid (and often very detailed) propositions in front of as many people as she could possibly manage. John hadn't known this, at first, and it was only when Sherlock was describing something at home in the afternoon that he discovered it.

"Brilli-"

John's familiar word was cut off by Irene's silky voice.

"I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

John's eyes widened and he felt a growl slipping into his throat. He gritted his teeth and coughed quietly. Irene shot him an amused glance and smirked at him. He frowned harder, feeling very much like he'd just played into her hands and proved something to her.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."  
"Twice."

Sherlock merely glared and turned to John to continue explaining his latest revelation. His speech was slower and less enthusiastic than normal, and John's usually generous praise was stilted. They looked at each other helplessly, both wanting to get rid of her. John had never seen her actually do anything useful (she didn't even make herself tea, so that was another person John had to cater for), but apparently she was useful for _something_, so she had to stay.

* * *

"Can't we put her up with someone else?" John muttered to Sherlock when she was in the shower.

She took extravagantly long showers which, though it gave them a moment of peace, dramatically increased their water bill.

"Like who, John?" Sherlock didn't snap, like perhaps he normally would have. Instead he sounded tired, and like he _really_ wanted an answer.  
"I don't know, Mycroft?"  
"He would _literally_ kill her within a day. And then he'd somehow make it my fault."  
"Greg?"  
"His wife left him less than two years ago, it probably wouldn't be fair to stick a reasonably attractive young women in a small apartment with him."  
"Anderson?" John was getting desperate.  
"Would be brilliant, seeing as he's so ridiculously incompetent he'd try to make a move on her and then end up with his hand chopped off. However, seeing as that would only result in a complaint I'd have to deal with somehow, it's not really worth it. She'll just have to stay."  
"Fantastic."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the rare calm.

"Have either of you got a spare towel?" Irene called from the doorway. She was leaning against it, one hand on her hip and the other on the door handle behind her. She was also completely naked. John shot to his feet, stopped himself from covering Sherlock's eyes, and rushed over to the linen cabinet, where he got out a towel.

"Ta, John!" she said cheerfully and disappeared back into the steam, closing the door after her.

He turned to Sherlock and they stared at each other. John shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm going to go out for a while, Sherlock," he said, grabbing his coat from the hall and stuffing his keys, phone and wallet in his pocket. "I'm just going to go for a walk and get away from," he jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom, "things."

Sherlock raised a hand in understanding and farewell and looked longingly at the door.

As John walked past, he patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll bring you back something nice."


	19. HOUND

Chapter Nineteen  
HOUND

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stared at the crime scene before him and, not for the first time in the last few weeks, wondered why he'd gone into the police force.

The recent incidents connecting to Moriarty had slowly been driving his whole team, including him, insane. There was literally no evidence they could use to find him and even Sherlock had admitted defeat. Anderson would have made a stupid comment about it, but Lestrade had been working to keep them separated unless John was around.

While nowhere near to condoning it, Greg could at least _put up with_ the messages and graffiti luring and taunting Sherlock (at least they weren't hurting anybody), but this was just _sick_.

"NOOOOO! You can't take me!"

The victim was screaming and thrashing as two police officers grabbed her and managed to handcuff her hands together.

"I won't answer any of your questions! You can do what you like to me, but I'll never talk!"

Hanson, one of the officers handling the victim, opened his mouth to recite the normal, "_You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence_," then closed his mouth, apparently deciding it wasn't worth it.

Greg agreed with him.

This was the third victim they had found in the last week and a half (Greg didn't know why _his _team was called to deal with it, seeing as it wasn't his division, but he had a feeling it had something to do with his connection to Sherlock), and they had nothing in common, apart from the state they were found in.

All three victims were terrified, paranoid and extremely violent. He'd had to send several men home already with ice packs and broken noses. They'd managed to hold down the second victim long enough for an MRI scan, and the results had been shocking – the young man's frontal lobe had been severely damaged, and it was as though his entire brain was giving off distress signals.

And while that was horrifying, it wasn't the worst. No, what was worse was that someone had sprayed a yellow smiley face onto the victims' faces – there were two big dots covering their eyelids and the area around their eyes, and an enormous, Joker-like smile painted over their mouth and onto their cheeks. Sally had paled and staggered off to be sick the first time she'd seen it and Lestrade hadn't fared much better.

He sighed as he watched the third victim get put into the police car and decided it was time to call Sherlock in.

* * *

Sherlock stared impassively at the hysterical woman in front of him. They'd found another victim (the fourth so far), but this one was different. Instead of being found in a deserted alley somewhere screaming her head off, this victim had been chained to a wall near Angelo's (though she was still screaming her head off) and had clearly been left for Sherlock to find. John was off to the side, frown lines etched deep into his forehead. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then whirled on the spot to face the wall and the yellow graffiti covering it.

_Haven't figured me out yet? It's looking very grim indeed. Do you want me to leave something for you to follow?_

The cipher was there as well, in two pairs. Sherlock made a frustrated sound – they still hadn't managed to find the book. John made his way over to Sherlock's side and joined him in staring at the wall. John read the message once, then frowned and read it again.

"Sherlock," he started, and then paused, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "It's not a fairytale of some sort, is it? I mean, he wouldn't…would he? Well, I mean, he's completely psychotic, so I don't know _what_ exactly he _would_ do-"  
"John. John! You are fantastic!" Sherlock grabbed his by the shoulders and turned them both in a circle.

(On the other side of the crime scene, Anderson sniggered, then felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder)

"Grimm's fairy tales, John! The Brothers Grimm! _That's_ what book he's been using. God, I'm so _blind_. Why didn't I see it? Come on, John, we have to translate the cipher!"

With that, he dashed off to the main road, already raising his arm for a cab. John rolled his eyes and walked over to the D.I.

"Sherlock's had a breakthrough – we know the book he's using for the code. I'll text you later – I've got to go or he'll run off without me," John informed him, and then trotted after Sherlock, sliding into the waiting cab.

* * *

Lestrade watched them go, slightly startled at the abrupt departure, and then turned back to the crime scene. Without the distraction of keeping Sherlock and Anderson away from each other (with all that was going on, he wasn't going to risk it even if John _was_ there as mediator), he immediately became aware of the (still) screaming woman who was (still) attached to the wall with a chain (an actual, honest-to-God chain).

"Right," he muttered to himself and marched forward to bark out orders to his inferiors.

* * *

A/N:

I love Lestrade, I really do. The poor, poor man.


	20. Translation

Chapter Twenty  
Translation

"Well, _crap_," John stated as he stared at the paper in front of him. After Sherlock had had his revelation, they'd both rushed back to the flat in search of the '_Grimm's Fairy Tales_'. After a bit of frantic rummaging around the flat (which included Sherlock throwing around multiple books and John trailing after him and picking them up), Sherlock had emerged successful, though slightly dishevelled. Within minutes, the cipher had been translated and Sherlock had written the messages on the piece of paper currently in front of John.

"I mean," he continued, "that's just _creepy_."

Sherlock stared at him incredulously.

"It's only _now_ just getting creepy? He literally drove four other people insane, John."  
"Yeah, yeah, you're right. But still, that's just…messed, really. I mean, '_I will find you_' and '_watch out_'? It's really just stalker-ish." Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"What happens now, then?" Irene cut in, having been neglected in the corner. John continued to ignore her and Sherlock shrugged.  
"He'll send another message, I suppose. He hasn't finished yet."  
"How do you know?"  
"It will be very clear when he is finished with the game – it's probable that he will end up trying to blow multiple people up, including any combination of the three of us, and he will _certainly_ try to kill me. Ambitious as that might be."

John narrowed his eyes. He hadn't really listened to most of it, still focusing on the creepiness of it all, but the 'certainly try to kill me' bit had definitely sunk through. A wave of protectiveness rose up in him, different from the possessiveness that seemed to appear whenever Adler did.

"Well that's not going to happen."  
"What?" Sherlock looked startled.  
"There's no way he's going to kill you, Sherlock. It's just not going to happen."  
"And you're going to stop it, are you?" Irene cut in from the side. John refused to budge.  
"He's not getting to you."  
"John, while I appreciate the sentiment-"

John narrowed his eyes.

"Moriarty has men who have been trained in multiple martial art disciplines and don't have the morality that you do – none of his hired hit men would hesitate to take you out if they saw you as a threat."  
"Which they won't," Irene chimed in again.

John whirled around, stared at her for several seconds, and then turned back to Sherlock.

"I don't care. I'll get them before they get me, or you. I've done it before."

Sherlock looked at him contemplatively.

"Yes, you have."

Unseen by the both of them, Irene raised her eyebrows at their conversation and resolved to stop being deliberately irritating and start being helpful. Maybe. Actually, probably not – it was more fun being annoying.


	21. Henry Knight

Chapter Twenty One  
Henry Knight

Henry Knight staggered through the alley, semi-conscious and half blind. He reached the main road and leant heavily against the wall, breathing hard and staring around in confusion. He almost forgot what he'd come for, why he'd moved from his spot huddled on the ground, and then he caught sight of New Scotland Yard. Raising one of his hands to his stomach in an effort to stop feeling as though he was about to puke up his own pancreas, he resumed stumbling and lurched determinedly across the road and towards the building.

* * *

"Sir!" Donovan gasped as she appeared at the door of Lestrade's office. He looked up from the depths of his coffee, enormous black bags evident under his eyes.  
"What is it?" he asked tiredly.  
"You know all those victims we found that were completely out of it?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Well, there's been another one, but he's different."  
"What? How?"  
"He's speaking. He managed to make his way here and he wants to talk to the freak."

Greg's eyes widened.

"Well go and get him! Make him comfortable, or something. God knows the man is probably half out of his mind!"  
"Yes sir."

Donovan left the doorway and jogged towards the elevator. Greg sighed and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He looked down at his coffee (now cold) and contemplated dealing with Sherlock without it. He shuddered, and swallowed the remainder of the mug in one gulp, wincing at the taste. Bracing himself, he picked up his phone and held down number three. Speed dial took over and it began ringing.

John picked up on the seventh ring.

"Greg?"  
"Hi John. He got you answering his phone again?"  
"Um, well, he's a bit…preoccupied at the moment."

There was an enormous crash in the background on John's side. Lestrade took the phone away from his ear, stared at it for several seconds, and then returned it cautiously so he could resume the conversation.

"Is he able to come in?"  
"_Yes! I am!_"

Sherlock's voice was audible over another crash. John groaned.

"Not the kettle, please," he whimpered, and then cleared his throat. "We'll be right in."  
"With your…guest?" Lestrade asked, _really_ hoping the answer would be-  
"No, not with her today."

_Oh, thank merciful God._

"Oh, well…that's a shame."  
"Isn't it just? We'll see you in a bit Greg."

In the few seconds before John hung up, Greg heard another crash, frenzied yowling and curses that sounded like they were from John's army days.

_Click_.

Christ.

Well, Lestrade could only hope separation from the mad woman would calm them down. And he'd thought _Anderson_ was bad.

* * *

Sherlock and John ran out of the flat, slamming the door behind them and not looking back. When they made it to the road, Sherlock used his extraordinary ability of catching cabs to ensure they wouldn't be caught and stopped, and they were soon on their way to New Scotland Yard. It was only when they were several streets away from Baker Street that they allowed themselves to relax.

"She needs to go," John said. There was no room for negotiation in his tone. Luckily, Sherlock agreed.  
"The first opportunity I get, I'm sending her somewhere else," he promised.

John breathed deeply and leant against the back of the chair.

"What was she even here for?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"I'd hoped she would provide some insight to what Moriarty was playing at."  
"How?"

Sherlock's grimace grew worse.

"After I was called on to get the photos from her, she appeared on another case of mine, a completely unconnected one. She was working for someone, but I could never find out whom. When the cabbie mentioned a man named Moriarty, who was _more_ than a man, I knew that was who had employed her. Having worked for him once, I _had_ hoped she would know how he operated, or that she had gained some information, however small, that would be useful. Up until recently, she played along, but now I'm convinced that he never let anything slip. Anyway, it was shot in the dark – he'd never let anyone close enough to learn anything that could be used against him."  
"You invited someone who has worked for Moriarty before into our _home_?"  
"I thought it would help with the case, John. There is nothing appealing about her at all, apart from her connections."

John pursed his lips. Sherlock sighed and leant closer.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invited her. She's always had a sort of a…_thing_ that she does whenever I'm around. I don't know if she does it with anyone else, but the only other person I've seen her around (except for you) is Mycroft, and there's no way she would try anything like that on him – for several reasons. I was…a bit of an idiot."

John was really quite impressed – Sherlock had apologised _and_ faulted his own intelligence.

"It's fine," John muttered, leaning against Sherlock's offered shoulder. He tilted his head up and pressed a quick kiss against the other man's cheek. "She just really gets to me, and I get this wave of possessiveness whenever she's around."

Sherlock's wince shifted into a smirk and he turned his head to whisper in John's ear.

"I _had_ noticed that," he purred. John swallowed and narrowed his eyes.  
"Well, now you'll just have an incentive to get her out faster," he growled back. With a returning smirk, John leant in close, only to unbuckle his seatbelt and slide out of the cab, leaving a startled Sherlock to pay the cabbie.

* * *

John walked in through the doors of New Scotland Yard with a smug smile on his face, until he saw the man sitting on the couch. There was a mug of something hot steaming on the table next to him, but it was obvious he hadn't touched it. John switched to doctor-mode immediately and strode over.

"What happened?" he asked briskly, already kneeling down to check the man's eyes. They were slightly dilated, but not so much they it was a concern, and they were still bright and alert.  
"What?" he asked, looking startled. He seemed to be in control of his movement, though his gestures when he moved his arms were slightly jerky. John eyed him cautiously.  
"Were you in any sort of trouble at all earlier this evening? I'm a doctor," he reassured the man, "not a police officer."

His eyes widened, and then he looked past John to the man striding in through the doors.

"Are you John Watson?" he asked frantically. John tensed immediately.

_How do you know my name?_

"Who's asking?"  
"My name is Henry Knight – I was taken by Moriarty this morning, and he got one of his people to give a dose of the gas that I read about, the one that makes people paranoid and turns them into something they're not. I had been meaning to get in contact with Sherlock Holmes for a while now, to deal with an issue my father's having back in Grimpen village. I heard someone mention his name outside the door, so I went up and listened, and when I was dumped in an alley, I managed to get back here. I knew I needed to tell you, and him, what they said."

John stared at the man – Henry Knight. His story was ridiculously far-fetched, but he seemed like he was telling the truth. John turned to call Sherlock over, but found him standing by his shoulder.

"That sounds like quite an incredible story, Mr. Knight," he commented. "Are you sure all of it is true?"  
"_Yes_," he said, conviction ringing clear in his voice. "I don't know what I can do to get you to believe me, I can only swear to you, on my life, that I am telling the truth."

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Sherlock tilted his head almost imperceptibly.

"Start from the beginning."  
"And drink the tea," John added. Sherlock threw him a look, but John simply returned with one that said, _I'm a doctor, shut up._

Henry breathed out, relieved, and reached out for the mug. He took a sip, and then cradled it in his hands (despite the fact it was now lukewarm at best).

"I caught a train yesterday evening to come to talk to you about my father. We both live in Grimpen Village, where the Baskerville Research Centre is located. My dad's sort of a conspiracy theorist, and he's never liked Baskerville. With all that's been happening lately in the news, he's been getting more and more riled up, but the thing is, some of the stuff he's been saying has made sense. There was a leak earlier in the year – they tried to cover it up, but it was never going to disappear entirely and most of us still remember it. Somebody, I don't remember who, said they had heard Baskerville was working on a drug that made people insane – made them paranoid, violent, some of the test subjects _killed_ people, we heard. It was apparently for some sort of military project, and the extent of our information was the name. It was called HOUND. That's all we knew for sure, but my dad started saying that Baskerville was corrupt, and someone had bought the drug and had started using it on ordinary citizens. Most of the village has learnt to ignore him, but there are some people who get right into that sort of thing and they joined him in some kind of protest. I don't know what they did, exactly, but when I next saw dad, he had bruises all over his face and refused to tell me how he'd got them – told me he'd fallen down some stairs, but I'm not stupid."

Sherlock remained silent. John's eyebrows were close together and his mouth was set in a grim line.

"And you think he's right about the drug – that someone, maybe Moriarty, bought it and has been using it on the other four victims."  
"Yes."

John rocked back on his heels and breathed out in a deep sigh. He turned to Sherlock.

"What do you think?"  
"It sounds like something he'd do," Sherlock muttered. "But it doesn't make sense entirely – is it a means to an end? Was there a point, or was it all just part of his game? An intimidation tactic? To let us know what he's capable of?"  
"Henry, what did you hear them talking about when you were taken?"  
"They said," he frowned, trying to remember. "It's hard to…I…he wanted to send a warning – something about…caring? No. That doesn't make sense. He said something about a big explosion…and a heart."

John frowned again and shook his head. Sherlock stood abruptly and looked down.

"My thanks. You've been a great help."

John stood as well, offering a smile to the startled man.

"Oh, you're going?"  
"Yes, I'm afraid. Now that we've finally got something to work with, there's no time to lose."  
"Oh. Right."  
"Afternoon," Sherlock said and walked out briskly. Both John and Henry Knight stared after him. John rolled his eyes with a small shake of his head, and turned back to Henry.  
"Thanks so much, Henry. You've been a great help."

They shook hands, Henry still looking distressed.

"Drink the rest of the tea," John advised. "If you can, go find another one after that and drink it while it's hot, this time. After that, go back to your hotel and get warm. You might not be in shock now, but it's best to take precautions anyway. If you've got any problems, let Scotland Yard know and they'll get in contact with me, or you can find my email through my blog."

With that, John trotted after Sherlock.

* * *

Lestrade clattered down the stairs, glaring at the elevator that was _still_ somehow on the ground floor, despite how long he'd waited up on the fifth floor.

"Hello," he greeted when he saw the man on the couch. "You must be Henry Knight. Do you want to come up to my office while we wait for Sherlock? It might be marginally more comfortable up there."  
"Um, actually, they've already…been and gone."  
"What?"  
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? The men I wanted to see? They came through and talked to me. They left just a minute ago."

D.I Lestrade closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose.

"Sometimes, I wish those two would at least let me know when they decide to swan in and out. It would be so much easier if they just _told_ me these things," he muttered to himself. Opening his eyes again, he breathed out and offered Henry a strained smile. "Well, we need to record your statement anyway, so you might as well come up. We have slightly better tea and coffee in the office area as well, though that's not really saying much."

Greg ushered Henry towards the elevator. The doors opened as soon as he pressed the button and he rolled his eyes as they both stepped in and he pressed the button for the fifth floor.

Really, how hard was it for them to just send him a _text_?

* * *

A/N:

Oh my good goodness. _I have forgotten a disclaimer!_ How could I?!

*ahem*

I solemnly swear that none of the characters, settings or previously written and recognised dialogue is mine. Nor do I take credit for coming up with the idea of shapeshifting, though I maintain that all of the original words and incredibly mangled plot did, in fact, come from my own brain. Behind my face.

So there.


	22. An Unfortunate Disguise

Chapter Twenty Two  
An Unfortunate Disguise

John stared, uncomprehending, at Sherlock, who, for once in his life, actually looked uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly.

John just shook his head.

"You want me to _what_?"  
"_Need_, John. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't _needed_."

He focused on Irene, standing behind Sherlock with her hip cocked and a smug grin on her face. He set his gaze back on Sherlock and sighed. God knows he'd do most things for that man, masquerading as a dog wouldn't be too far from the norm. At least no one would know it was him.

"Fine," he said. "Fine."

Sherlock shot him such a grateful look it almost made up for it. Almost. And then John looked at Irene.

Anger shot to him so quickly that it was easier to shift than control it. Irene stepped forward, still smug, and he growled, giving her a look that said, "If you come within a meter of me right now, I will actually bite your arm off. I'm not joking". It was a mark of how well he had perfected that look that, even in his Alsatian form, Irene's eyes widened slightly and she didn't move forward further or make any comments at all. John stood deliberately still as Sherlock placed the collar around his neck and clipped the leash on, and allowed Sherlock to 'lead' him out of the flat and down the stairs.

Once they were through the door, Sherlock and Irene pasted smiles on their faces, and John dropped his ears and raised his tail. Sherlock turned around and locked the door, chatting inanely about the weather. They linked arms and John started trotting in front of them, willing himself not to listen.

He remembered Sherlock's reasoning for this little adventure of theirs – they needed to go see his homeless network, but Moriarty was sure to have people everywhere, especially near Baker Street. With any luck, their shifting abilities had remained a secret (though Sherlock wouldn't put it past Anderson to sell them on eBay, or something), and Irene had gone largely unnoticed by the rest of Moriarty's entourage when she worked for him, so it made sense for John to put on his best disguise and for Sherlock and Irene to masquerade as a happy couple. If it were up to John, it would be him and Sherlock on their way to a fur coat shop with Irene in her vixen form in a plastic bag.

But he didn't say that out loud.

* * *

Sherlock lead them on a roundabout trip through the city towards their destination. This was partially so Moriarty's men – if he had any stationed, which was a probability – would have a harder time following them, and partly so Mycroft's cameras would have the same difficulty. Despite what Sherlock claimed, his homeless network was important to him, if only because he'd spent time building up a select network of 'trustworthy' contacts. After an hour (in which John counted Irene complaining no less than four times), Sherlock knocked on a seemingly random door. It was opened slightly a full minute later (Irene managed to sneak in another complaint) by an unkempt teenage girl. She had dirty blonde hair and was nowhere near clean, but she had full hips, and her ribs were hidden. She was being looked after, John noted with satisfaction.

"Mr 'Olmes," she greeted, but didn't open the door any more.  
"This is my partner," he began. Irene preened. "Dr. John Watson, though he is normally human, of course."

John straightened unconsciously and puffed his chest out. Irene glowered.

"This woman is my associate, Irene Adler. She won't be attending the meeting, but she was a necessary part of the disguise needed to get here."

She opened her mouth and made a sort of shocked gasp, and John's tail began wagging. The girl smirked and pulled the door open to allow them through. John went in first, Irene following resentfully, and then Sherlock bringing up the rear and closing the door carefully. John shifted while Sherlock's back was turned and Irene stuck her tongue out at him. Instead of replying, he just stuck his own tongue right back at her as he reached up to undo the collar still around his neck. Her glower returned in full force. He smirked to himself as he turned and placed the leather band and the connected leash in his jacket pocket. The girl – Emily, he learnt later – gestured for him to follow her and, looking back to make sure Sherlock was coming with him, started walking after her. Emily led them to a small room where a middle-aged couple were sitting. The woman, though just as unkempt and filthy as the girl (who John assumed was their daughter), held herself upright and had a certain regal air about her. The man beside her was comparatively relaxed and comfortable, leaning back in his chair and sitting with his legs apart. John recognised a fellow canine shifter and nodded in greeting. He received a friendly, though short, nod in return.

John glanced back through the door to see Sherlock talking to an angry looking Irene. He said something, and she opened her mouth to reply angrily, but Sherlock just shook his head and closed the door in her face. Something in John's chest lifted and flew around in a happy circle.

"Hello Sherlock, please sit down," the man welcomed. Sherlock did as he was bid and returned a greeting. John hovered uncertainly behind Sherlock's chair. The woman smiled slightly and made a small gesture towards the chair next to Sherlock's. He took it gratefully, but remained silent.

"I need your help," Sherlock stated, getting straight to the point of the matter and leaning forward to place his elbows on the table in front. Both shifters across the table raised their eyebrows, and shared a significant glance.

"You aren't normally so upfront about it, Sherlock. What's changed?"  
"Moriarty," he announced.

Both man and woman sat up straight (straight_er_) and their eyes narrowed.

"He's back?" the woman spoke her first words of the meeting. Sherlock nodded once. The man sighed heavily.  
"We will do what we can to help, then. We know of the things he has been doing and what he is capable of."  
"I will of course be happy to provide any help I can – funding or-"

The man waved his offer away.

"Nonsense, Sherlock. We are doing this as much for ourselves as we are doing it for you, you needn't worry about that. Now, who's this sitting next to you?"

Sherlock leant back in his chair and looked to John.

"Dr. John Watson," he introduced. John offered a tentative smile. "This is Roger and Stephanie Adams. They are, for want of a better word, the leaders of my network."

Stephanie rolled her eyes.

"He's exaggerating. We certainly aren't leaders of any sort; we just try to help out with the community as much as we can. It's a pleasure to meet you, John. And I'm an avian, by the way. A pigeon, to be specific."

John nodded – now he knew why she was regal. All avian shifters, no matter the bird, seemed to exude a sort of superiority, though they were often very pleasant to be around.

"And I'm just a common stray," Roger said cheerfully. "How about you, John?"  
"An Alsatian," he told them, slightly nervously. "A German Shepherd," he clarified.  
"An army man, then?"

John felt his own eyebrows raise.

"Er, yes, actually. An army doctor. I was invalided home from Afghanistan a year and a bit ago now," he confirmed.  
"Oh, really? Well, good on you for fighting for Queen and country, and all that."  
"Ah, thanks."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the awkward (at least on John's end) conversation and stood, pushing back his chair with the abrupt movement.

"I came to ask if you and several others in the community could keep an eye out for anything suspicious going on. If you could station several people in a couple different areas and keep them moving around, that would work well. They know how to contact me if they see anything, though I'm sure you'll want them to report to you first."

Stephanie stood as well, and John noticed she was quite short, for all the airs she gave off – she was one of those misleading people who was actually quite short but _appeared_ tall. (John wished he could achieve that. He was just short)

"Certainly, Sherlock. We'll set up some people around the perimeter of each suburb and keep them roaming around. I hope your investigation goes well and you stop the madman before he causes anymore damage."

With that, she vanished through a door John hadn't noticed, set in the back wall. Roger stood as well and sighed.

"Sorry about that, it's just one of the victims was one of ours, and we're all still quite upset about it. She doesn't mean to be so brisk, but we're all very tense at the moment. We'll make sure to send our most observant people to have a look around. Best of luck," he wished, and then disappeared through the same door.

Sherlock turned to John with his eyebrows raised.

"That went quite well, actually. Far better than I was expecting, at any rate. We'll now have the best eyes and ears in the city keeping a look out for us, so if there's anything to see, we'll know about it."

John nodded and stood, looking around.

"I feel oddly terrified. Like I've just been through a huge ordeal, or something like that."

Sherlock smirked.

"Stephanie does tend to have that sort of effect on people," he agreed. John giggled softly and they walked towards the door they'd entered through less than fifteen minutes before. When Sherlock opened it, John had to stifle another round of giggles when he saw Irene still standing out there with an incredibly unattractive pout.

"Took you long enough," she muttered sullenly, making her way towards the front door quickly.  
"Thanks Emily!" Sherlock called through the hallway. "We'll see ourselves out."  
"Cheers, Mr 'Olmes," came the answering call. Sherlock smiled to himself and took the lead and collar offered to him by John, who was currently shifting.

* * *

They left the house, Sherlock closing the door behind them again, and immediately set off, Sherlock and Irene once more talking mindlessly and John slipping into the persona of happy domestic pet.


	23. Fourth Calling

Chapter Twenty Three  
Fourth Calling

_Knock. Knock knock. Knock. Knock._

John looked at Sherlock over the newspaper. He grinned.

"You have a secret knock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood.

"It's not me. I've tried to get them to stop, but they do it anyway. I think it's an act of rebellion."

John laughed and Sherlock wandered down to the front door.

"_John!_"

John jumped and dropped the paper. He scrambled around the living room, pulling open drawers in an attempt to find his gun.

"Goddamit, Sherlock, where-"  
"In the breakfast cupboard!"

John stopped and shook his head.

"I swear-"  
"_Hurry, John!_"

He ran to the kitchen, grabbed his gun, ran back to the living room, grabbed his jacket, and then clattered down the stairs to the door.

"I'm here!"  
"Oh, well done. It was only a minute and a half, this time."

John sighed.

"Please stop timing how long it takes me to get organised."

The two teenagers standing at the door laughed and Sherlock winked.

"Well? You called me down here in a big hurry, I can only assume it's somewhat important."  
"Another cipher, John. And apparently it's got an interesting message."

One of the teens nodded eagerly.

"Yessir, it certainly means something's gon' happen soon!"

Sherlock stared at the boy who'd spoken,

"You're new to this, aren't you."

He blanched and stepped back. The girl next to him rolled her eyes and pushed in front.

"Yes, Mr. 'Olmes, he is new. I told him to keep his trap shut but he just wouldn't listen. Never mind 'im, though, you'll want to see this message."  
"Alright then. Coming, John?"

John have him a look that said, _'Are you actually asking that question?'_ and followed him out the door.

The teens set off at a run, pushing and shoving at each other, playing the part of fighting siblings racing ahead of their parents.

"I tell you, they could all be award winning actors if they tried. If I didn't know any better I'd have pegged them as someone's kids running in front of their guardians."  
That is rather the point, John."  
"Where did you find them all, anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Wherever you'd expect to find lonely kids. Orphanages, alleys. Sometimes they're child labourers, if their parents sold them early on. I found one or two of them lurking around dodgy building, looking to buy or sell drugs."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, for which Sherlock was grateful.

"I gave them an invite. Took the ones I thought looked clever and willing to learn aside and told them what I needed. In return, I provided them with food and other necessary items, as well as certain luxuries they requested from me."

A grin threatened to split John's face. Sherlock frowned.

"What?"  
"Nothing."  
"_What_?"  
"It's just…you're like the big mafia dad of a criminal network, except instead of blackmailing or threatening them, you take them from uncharitable places and give them food and work."

He scowled.

"Don't think I was doing it for them, John. I said I needed information, not _'they were so cute with their big eyes and puppy dog faces I just couldn't resist so I had to take them in and give them a place to stay.'_ Don't, for the love of God, confuse the two."  
"Wouldn't dream of it."  
"You're still smiling."

* * *

The two youths led hem through a maze of back alleys John had never known existed, until they came to an abrupt stop in front of a small wall set between two doorways. It was covered in graffiti, and John had to stop and let his eyes adjust before he managed to catch sight of Moriarty's cipher. it was hidden in a corner, flanked by an artist's pink tag and a rather lurid display of two women. John blushed, then shook his head and refocused. The clue was-

"Just wait for the big finale."

John breathed out heavily.

"He's planning something big, isn't he?"  
"Obviously. Did you bring the book?"  
"What?"  
"For the cipher, did you bring it?"  
"You _didn't_?"  
"Very funny, John, I've learnt my lesson, I'll never sin again, etcetera, etcetera." He held out a hand. Grin recovering and making another appearance, John reached into his coat pocket, procured the book and dropped it into Sherlock's waiting palm.

"There you are."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_You're welcome,_" John hinted. He sighed.  
"Thank you," he drawled out, though playfulness still shone in his eyes.

Sherlock checked the numbers of the cipher against the book, then raised an eyebrow, evidently having found what he was looking for.

"What?"  
"'_Almost_.'"  
"Sorry?"  
"That's what the word is, John. _'Almost_.'"

John tensed and had to consciously stop himself from taking his gun out and looking around.

_Almost what?_

Sherlock had visibly stiffened as well, and they shared a glance heavy with concern. John nodded once.

Pulling out his wallet from his coat, Sherlock took out two notes and gestured to the two homeless teenagers lurking by the mouth of the alley, keeping watch for any second glances.

"Take these, go back to wherever you were stationed, act as if nothing has happened, and, above all, _do not talk about it_, alright?"

Both girl and boy nodded vigorously, grinning at the paper in their hands. They turned to each other, then she pushed him, and they were off running again, disappearing quickly around the corner and into the busy main street.

John watched them go, and then turned to Sherlock.

"Shall we?"  
"We shall."

They clasped hands for a second, conveying strength and love and _we will get through this together or not at all_.

Sherlock breathed in. John nodded again.

They shifted in a blur and sprinted the same way as Sherlock's informants had left. They weaved in and out of pedestrians on the footpath, ignoring the cries of shock and indignation (and occasionally pain, if Sherlock happened to use a leg as a climbing post). They reached Baker Street in record time, and managed to turn the handle by John placing his front paw on the door and acting as a ramp for Sherlock to run up and sit on the doorknob. Once in, John shut the door with his good shoulder and they both shifted back. In a fit of rare childishness, they high-fived, then stared at each other and giggled breathlessly. Sherlock staggered up the stairs, one hand clutching his stomach, the other pulling himself up by the rail. John climbed up after him, admiring the view.

"Stop looking at my ass, you tosser!" Sherlock threw over his shoulder, demand ruined somewhat by the grin splitting his face. John's rivalled that of his partner's, and he winked lasciviously.


	24. Boundaries

Chapter Twenty Four  
Boundaries

John knew he was territorial. The German Shepherd in him made it impossible not to be. But even if he was territorial, he respected boundaries. Sherlock did as well, his animal instincts taking over from his normal disregard for social rules. So John's chair was completely out of bounds; completely _John's_. He made sure of it every day, and Sherlock never, ever sat in it. In return, John largely avoided the couch where Sherlock usually lay. Shortly after moving in together, they bought another chair just for visitors, after John nearly punched Anderson for sitting in his chair.

And then Irene waltzed in.

She had absolutely no regard for boundaries of any sort. She slinked through the flat, practically rubbing herself against any available surface. John could deal with that; he simply started scrubbing all of the tables, cabinets and chairs thoroughly with cleaning spray. Having worked at the clinic for several months, he had slowly become desensitized to the harsh smell of it, but to Irene, it _burned_. Sherlock simply wrinkled his nose and stuck his face into his scarf. John felt a sort of vindictive pleasure at that, until Irene crossed the line.

She sat in John's chair.

Sherlock unlocked the door and John, still giggling absentmindedly from adrenaline, passed him and only vaguely registered Sherlock stopping still. He had almost made it to the kitchen before he heard the muttered, "Uh oh," from Sherlock. He stopped and turned to Sherlock with a question on his lips. As he turned to the front door, he caught sight of the living room.

Irene sat there, smug as anything and casually painting her nails, in the middle of John's chair. For several seconds, John could only stare, wide-eyed, at the blatant disrespect in front of him. She was a guest in his home (_their_ home), sitting in a chair that belonged to them (to _him_) like she had every right to be there (she had _no_ right to be there). John blinked twice, then retraced his earlier path into the kitchen. He filled up a glass with water, took a sip, and walked back into the living room, this time coming to stand directly in front of his chair (_leave now_). Irene continued painting her nails bright red. Only when she finished with her right hand – perfect, despite the fact she was doing it with her left – did she _deign_ to look up at him (who does she think she is?), a condescending smirk evident on her face. John stared blankly at her and took another sip of water. Still in the doorway, Sherlock chuckled to himself.

"**_Gah!_**"

Irene screeched and leapt out of the chair. John set the empty glass on the coffee table and walked away. Irene shook her sopping her out of her eyes and stared down at her soaked dress (the one she was _almost_ wearing). She glared at John's back with an ugly expression on her face. Sherlock laughed. As John left the flat, passing through the doorway, Sherlock shot an amused smirk at him and Irene could have _sworn_ she heard them high-five.

When the front door to 221 slammed shut, Sherlock stepped through the threshold and hung up his coat. Irene was still standing in the middle of the room, dripping water on the rug. Neither she nor Sherlock seemed to notice.

"You deserved it, you know," he told her casually. Her glare darkened, but she didn't say anything. Sherlock appeared in front of her, his face suddenly hard, and said, "_Don't_ do anything like that again."


	25. Final Calling

Chapter Twenty Five  
The Final Calling

Sherlock and Irene stood facing each other, in a stand-off of harsh glares. The silence was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing suddenly. Irene jumped, and then scowled at herself, knowing she'd lost.

Sherlock smirked to himself as he made his way back to the door to rifle through his coat's pockets. He took it out, checked the caller ID and stiffened slightly.

"Hello?"  
"Sherlock. It's…here. I'm pretty sure this is it."

Sherlock exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back. Why, _why_ had he let John go?

"Where is it? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Lestrade gave him directions and Sherlock made affirming noises throughout them, putting on his coat and grabbing the necessary supplies (which included Irene, much to his consternation) so that by the time they'd both hung up, the front door was locked and Sherlock was raising his arm for a taxi.

Irene rolled her eyes.

"So dramatic," she muttered.

Sherlock raised his eyes skyward. He'd never been one to believe in a god of any sort (though privately he'd quite liked the idea of putting one's faith in something unknown, not that he'd ever be able to do it himself), but he was honestly considering asking any god who was listening to give him strength to deal with this (and _her_).

When a taxi pulled up to the curb, Sherlock pushed Irene in, ignoring her protests, and slid in after her, giving the cabbie the address sharply. Something in his eyes must have frightened the man, because it was the fastest cab ride Sherlock had ever had and the driver didn't even ask for a tip. The directions had also sunk in, apparently (fear, Sherlock was rediscovering, was an excellent motivator), which allowed him to send a quick message to John – asking where he was – unhindered. When they arrived, Sherlock got out, yanked Irene's arm to get her to follow him, and then trotted off to find Lestrade. He handed Irene to him absentmindedly, placing her hand in his – much like a priest would do at a wedding.

"Have a woman."  
"What?"

But Sherlock had already hurried off to the wall, drawing out the children's (debatable) book as he went. He read the message quickly (_'Hurry!_') and glared at the wall as if it were responsible Moriarty's sick and twisted game. He opened the book with a quick flick of his wrist.

"Thirty eight…thirty eight…"

Sherlock thumbed through the pages impatiently, looking at the numbers on the bottom of the pages until he found the right one. He glanced up for the second number.

"One – first word! '_There_.' There?"

With a start, Sherlock remembered the previous message.

_Almost. Almost what?_

_Almost there._

_And now…_

_We're there._

Sherlock dug out his phone, panic creeping over him in an entirely new and unsettling way. _John_. He hadn't replied to the message Sherlock had sent earlier. _John_. His eyes grew wide and he practically sprinted as he retraced his steps to Lestrade. He was still standing next to Irene, though they'd released hands. Anderson had arrived at some point to stare obnoxiously at her and drool on himself.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's voice was high and squeaky with worry. He cleared it and hoped no one had heard. "He's got John!"  
"_What?_ How do you know?"  
"He hasn't replied to the message I sent."  
"So?"  
"He _always_ replies, you don't understand!"  
"Oh, isn't that cute, the freak's boyfriend never misses a text."  
"_Shut up Anderson!_"

Sherlock stared in surprise. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he hadn't got them out by the time they'd been said by almost every officer in the vicinity. He felt a stab of immensely strong triumph that was quickly overshadowed by his worry for John.

With a deep breath and hoping the one person he wanted to hear would pick up and _no one else_, Sherlock held down his first speed dial number and brought the phone up to the side of his head. It began dialling, and had almost reached the end when he heard the click that signified someone had picked up. There was silence.

"Hello?" Sherlock began cautiously.

Another pause.

"Sherlo- aah!"  
"Come and get him, Sherlock!"

_Click_.

Sherlock's face twisted into something ugly and he brought the phone away from his ear, stabbing the home button angrily.

"Moriarty's got him. For sure."  
"Christ. Do you know-"

Sherlock's phone _dinged_.

_Carl Powers. Come alone, Sherly, or Dr. Watson's going to be very unhappy indeed._  
- JM

"Do I know where?" Sherlock finished for him. Greg nodded in confirmation. Sherlock slipped his phone into his coat pocket.  
"No. Unfortunately," he affected a scowl. "I let him go because this one (- he jerked his head at Irene -) was being annoying and deliberately provocative. I have no idea where he was taken off the street or where he's being held now."

Neither of those technically a lie, per se.

"But," he held up a finger to stop any interruptions. "I can find out. Here," Sherlock said as he shoved Irene bodily towards Anderson. "Have a weasel-man."  
"Hey!"

With that, he was off, running back to the place he'd left the cab and, upon seeing there were none there at that moment, shifted and streaked away in favour of waiting another second.

_John._

_Just wait, John._

_I'll be there._


	26. The Conclusion

Chapter Twenty Six  
The Conclusion

Running all the way to what seemed like the _only pool in London_ from God-knows-where he was before was not, in hindsight, such a great idea. Even as a cat, his increased stamina was evened out by his small legs.

This meant that, when he eventually reached his destination, he was far too puffed out to burst in dramatically like he was hoping to do (which probably saved both his and John's lives). Instead, he shifted and crept in through the entrance, attempting to control his breathing. The pool was dim, and the seats raised above were completely black. Sherlock squinted up at them, attempting to gauge the threat, but he couldn't see anything, even with enhanced vision. He swallowed nervously and, having walked to the open area beside the pool, turned in a circle.

"Hello?"

He heard the shuffling sounds of someone walking and attempting to not throw up at the same time from behind him and whirled around.

"_John?_"

It was obvious he'd been subjected to the HOUND gas Henry had told them about. Though it looked like the worst effects had passed, John was shaking and he swallowed repeatedly. He didn't say anything.

Sherlock's eyes roved over him frantically. He didn't seem to be physically injured, but he had no idea what horrors Moriarty had subjected him to in the time Sherlock had taken to figure it out.

_Oh, stupid, STUPID!_

He zeroed in on the coiled spring of an earpiece protruding from John's ear. His nostrils flared and he felt the hair on his arms raise. If he had fur, it would have been bristling.

"Hello Sherlock."

John's voice was flat, monotone. Despite the lingering panic, he was clearly determined not to let Moriarty control him completely.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it? What would you like me to make him say next?"  
"_John._" It was barely a whisper, and John closed his eyes in sorrow, but snapped them open again, presumably at a command Sherlock couldn't hear. His hand clenched once, stayed in a fist for five seconds, and then relaxed again.  
"Gottle o'gear. Gottle o'gear. Gottle o'gear."  
"_Stop_." Sherlock still couldn't do much more than whisper. John stared at him intensely, like he was trying to convey some sort of message telepathically, but Sherlock was too lost in his own confusion and panic to make any deductions.  
"It's a nice touch isn't it, Sherlock? The place where little Carl died. He laughed at me, but I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."  
"Why- " Sherlock stopped and cleared his throat, turning on the spot to try and see where Moriarty was hiding.

The crisp sounds of walking echoed throughout the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls until Sherlock couldn't tell where it came from. He turned back to John, who was blinking rapidly, and took John's gun out of his pocket, bringing it up to point at the man who had appeared around a pillar at the other end of the pool. He merely smirked and walked forward casually, with his hands in his pockets and looking for all the world as though he were on a peaceful night stroll.

"Did you like my puzzles, Sherlock? I admit, I am a _little_ bit disappointed. I'm surprised it took you that long to work out what book I used, and even then, you had to get a hint from the Help," his voice was lilting and soft, his accent Irish.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock. To you?"  
"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock drawled, heart pounding. "I get killed."  
"_Kill you?_ Eh, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway some day, I don't want to rush it, though."

A quiet rumbling sounded and while Sherlock focused all of his willpower on not turning to John, Moriarty's smirk widened.

"He's touchingly loyal. You should have heard him when I first picked him up, going on and on about how I wasn't going to get anything about you out of him, it didn't matter what I did, etcetera, etcetera. Really, it was quite adorable."  
"Why are you doing this? People have been injured – you've driven people _insane_."  
"I know. Aren't you flattered."

There was a pause.

"You did all this for me?"  
"But of course, dear."  
"Well then by all means, let me put down the gun and we can go skipping off into the sunset together," Sherlock snapped out derisively, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the panicked fidgeting of his fingers around the handle of the gun. Moriarty's smirk grew so wide it might have been called a smile, if anything resembling a smile had ever passed over the madman's face.

"Touchingly loyal," he repeated, as though Sherlock hadn't said a word. "But then, pets are, aren't they."

_Too close_.

Both John and Sherlock stiffened. Sherlock was reminded of Anderson, of the stupid little comments so carelessly tossed around without any knowledge of their impact on other people. The hair on Sherlock's arms rose.

"Oh!" Moriarty exclaimed delightedly. "Well something is obviously going on here. I wonder…"

He tapped his chin in mock thoughtfulness and ambled closer to John.

_Too CLOSE._

He gazed over John's body, and then his hand snaked out, under John's collar, and pale fingers lifted up the leather band like it was a prize.

John's eyes widened, and then closed.

Sherlock wished he could do the same, but his whole body was frozen in its position, still pointing the gun, while all his brain could do was shout no, no, no,_ no, no, no, __**no, no, NO!**_ over and over again.

Moriarty stepped right up to John (_TOO CLOSE!_) and peered at the engraving on the metal tag.

"Aw," he cooed. "Isn't that sweet? I've found your little dog, Sherlock," he turned and put his back to John, disregarding him. "Do I get a reward?"

Sherlock's brain found enough strength to shout _**DO SOMETHING**_ amidst all the '_no_'s and his fingers flexed around the handle of the gun. Moriarty tssked.

"Now, now, don't be foolish. I understand people get so sentimental about pets, but honestly Sherlock, I'm surprised at you. I thought you were _above _that. Now I found out you're just as ordinary as everyone else. Just as _boring_ as everyone else."

He shrugged and made a face like he regretted the fact.

"And besides, he's injured – do you know what happens to injured doggies, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed again. The question was so like the one before.

'_Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?'  
'Oh, let me guess; I get killed.'  
'Kill you? Eh, no, don't be obvious.'_

But it was obvious now.

"They get put down, Sherlock. They get put out of their misery and they _die._"  
"No."  
"That's what animals _**DO**_!"

Moriarty, his face savage and inhuman, shouted at him, and behind him, John took a deep breath in and opened his eyes. He looked directly at Sherlock, and he finally understood the message John had been trying to get across.

_I love you_.

"No," Sherlock repeated, at John this time, and his body found the ability to shake his head.

John bit his lip and mouthed the words this time.

_I LOVE YOU_.

John erupted.

Sherlock stumbled back, his brain frantically attempting to wrap itself around the situation. John had shifted so fast he seemed to explode and before Moriarty could figure out what was happening, John had lunged forward. Sherlock's eyes flicked wildly over the scene in front of him: Moriarty on the floor, bleeding and broken, face twisted into a mask of surprise and terror; John, shifted, looming over him, muzzle dark and bloody; red dots hovering uncertainly on bodies and walls, the snipers clearly unsure of what to do, their boss never having prepared them for such an eventuality. The lights blinked out, one by one, and when they all finally disappeared, Sherlock breathed in a heady sigh of relief and took one shaky step towards John before-

"John, _move!_"

The dots had refocused on John's body, his fur burning red with light. The dog's eyes widened and he scrambled towards the pool, straining to reach it _before_-

The swimming pool exploded.

-/-\-

The force of it threw Sherlock back against the wall and he curled up instinctively, wrapping his hands around his head. When it seemed like the world had stopped shaking, he tentatively looked up. The pool was a wreck. It was filling with smoke even as he watched, and the locker doors on the walls had been blasted off their hinges. He squinted and, in the distance, he thought he saw a flame burning quietly. He trembled as he stood up, and stumbled out into the open air, sucking it deep into his lungs as he vaguely wiped at his stinging eyes. He could barely breathe or see due to the smoke. He clasped his head with his hands, knowing there was something important, something _desperately _important that he had to think of, but the ringing in his ears just _wouldn't stop!_ John would be able to fix it, he thought desperately, and then had the utterly terrifying and overwhelming feeling of someone setting a cold fire alight all along his spine.

"John? _John! John!_"

There was no response; no answering shout or echoing bark. Sherlock glanced around wildly, blinking angrily through his tears (that were from more than just the smoke, at this point). John was nowhere to be seen.

"No, goddamit, we did not get this far!"

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, which had miraculously not been destroyed in his fall, and held down his second speed dial number. Even holding his phone up to his ear, he barely heard the tone, but when he did, he placed the mobile on the ground and charged back into the building, shifting mid-stride.

Desperate mewls were wrenched out of his body without permission as he sprinted to the pool edge. There was no reply, and the mewling changed into yowling, torn from his throat. _ John. _He reached the water and scanned it frantically.

_John_.

**There!**

A flash of gold, brown and black fur caught his eye and he scrambled towards it. John was drifting under the water, unconscious, but still in his Alsatian form. Sherlock practically fell into the water and half waded, half swam towards him, reaching out and grabbing him around the middle. He hauled the dog over his shoulder and pushed his way through the water to the edge. Once there, he laid John on his back and lifted himself out of the pool. Sherlock hovered anxiously over his limp form, not knowing what to do and _hating _it. He covered John's chest and found the gap between his ribs (he hoped). He folded one hand over the other and started pumping. After three cycles, forgoing mouth to mouth for obvious reasons and just about desperate, John's jaws parted and water flowed from his snout. Sherlock breathed out in a huge sigh of relief and turned John's head to the side gently, then sat back on his heels and waited, biting his lip as he did so.

Eventually, John's lungs ran out of water, and he coughed out a bark (or was it barked out a cough? Sherlock didn't know anymore, his brain had started to feel fuzzy and he was trembling all over) before managing enough willpower and strength to shift back. Once human, he coughed a bit more, and spat once onto the poolside, and then lay on his back with a groan. His right hand found Sherlock's and he latched onto it tightly, still lying down. Sherlock's breathing relaxed the tiniest bit, but he was still shaking. John noticed (_of course he did_), and smiled softly.

_Are you okay?_ His eyes asked.  
_No,_ Sherlock's trembling answered.

John opened his arms in invitation and then wet fur was pressed against his face and there was a weight on his chest, but it was okay, even if it hurt, because it meant that it was _there_. He held the quivering cat in his arms and started crying. His silent tears coursed down his face and he tightened his arms reflexively.

_Thanks_, it said.  
The rasp of a tongue on his cheek, catching a tear and licking it away said, _You're welcome._

They lay there together, not saying a word because it wasn't necessary, until John figured he had just about enough strength to stand up. He managed to get to his feet without too many troubles and, once upright, he hugged Sherlock close again and started to make his way out. Sherlock's head pushed against his jaw, ears laid back flat, and the loudest purring John had ever heard rumbling through his chest and against John's. He smiled.

They made it out. And they would be fine.

-/-\-

"Christ Almighty," Lestrade breathed as he took in the smoking building in front of him. He gazed at it for a couple of seconds, his head tilting to the right, before passing a hand over his eyes and turning to the two shifters on the side of the crime scene. Sherlock had a hand on his ribs, apparently not having realised he'd been injured in the explosion, and an orange shock blanket wrapped snug around his frame, for once not protesting its presence. John passed him a mug of something hot, and kept once for himself, along with a plastic cup that he spat into every couple of minutes. They smiled at each other, but did not speak, as though talking would shatter some fragile illusion they had built up.

(Lestrade was being overly poetical - the truth was that they simply didn't need words to talk to each other, and were comfortable just basking in the warmth and presence of another person.)

Lestrade glanced to the other side, and immediately wished he hadn't. Mycroft Holmes was there, leaning on his umbrella near an ominous looking black car (Greg wasn't sure it wasn't a limousine).

"Christ Al_mighty_," he groaned. Of all the things he _didn't_ want to have to deal with at that very second, Mycroft Holmes was at the top of the list, along with Anderson, Sherlock, and the squad car's CD player. Whoever let the interns pick the music was going to pay. Big time.

Greg sighed, and then walked over, knowing that if this situation warranted Holmes the elder's presence, it was important (_probably_).

"Good evening, Detective Inspector." Mycroft tilted his head and stared at Greg as thoughts rampaged through his head like elephants on steroids. He blinked a bit at his own thought – what was _wrong_ with him?  
"Evening," he replied cautiously, after a too long pause.  
"It seems my brother has found trouble once again. It is fortunate, I think, that Doctor Watson is here to…guide him along, now. I think you'll agree when I say that Sherlock has been behaving much better recently."

Lestrade made a vaguely noncommittal noise, eyes darting around.

"No doubt you are wondering why I am here."

It was definitely not a question. Greg licked his lips and remained silent.

"James Moriarty arranged for Doctor Watson to be kidnapped and used as the fifth hostage to add a little _extra_ incentive for Sherlock. He organised this little meeting, picked the spot and set up the trap. No doubt it was all very dramatic. I am quite certain that neither Sherlock nor Doctor Watson were meant to emerge alive from tonight, and yet there they sit, relatively unharmed, while Moriarty lies dead on the floor from a vicious dog attack."

Greg licked his lips again. There didn't really seem to be a point to what Mycroft was saying, though if he knew the Holmes brothers at _all_, he knew that neither of them did anything without some sort of motive.

"While the spider may be dead, the rest of his web still remains, Detective Inspector, and both Sherlock and Doctor Watson will not rest until they take everyone who has had so much as a phone call with Moriarty down."

Well, _that_ was nice and ominous. He certainly couldn't complain about Sherlock being dramatic in his swishy coat (with his collar and cheekbones) anymore.

"I need you to guarantee their safety. They will, of course, be breaking multiple laws over the course of their adventure, and while their special abilities will for the most part ensure they remain covert, it would be…appreciated, let's say, if you went out of your way a bit to see that they stay out of jail. Jailbreaks are _quite_ tedious, and I have no desire to spend my time slogging through hours of paperwork when I could be doing many other, rather more important things."

_Like ruling the world_, Greg thought to himself.

"So, basically, you want me to bend the laws to keep them out of trouble long enough for them to go on what sounds pretty much like an international suicide mission?"  
"Quite. I would, of course, be happy to offer you a meaningful sum of money for your trouble and the extra hours you'd be putting in. As well as any moral codes you fear you may be breaking."  
"No."  
"Are you sure, Detective Inspector? I shan't ask again," he warned.

Who on earth uses '_shan't_' still?

"I'm quite sure, thank you. I'll do it, but on my own terms, and because I like John and even your brother, on rare occasions, not because of the money."

Mycroft smiled self-satisfactorily, and Greg had a horrible feeling the conversation had somehow gone exactly as Mycroft had planned it.

"Excellent. Well, time for me to be getting back, I think. Good luck cleaning this up, Detective Inspector."

Greg blinked, startled by the abrupt departure. And then, because his parents were good people and his mum raised him to be a gentleman, he said:

"Er, have a good day, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft looked back over his shoulder at Greg with one eyebrow raised, and gave his umbrella a little twirl.

"Call me Mycroft, _please_," he practically purred, and whatever Greg had planned on saying next died in his throat and lodged itself there, demanding a funeral and cake. Mycroft smiled smugly again and slid into the menacing car. As soon as the door shut, the driver took off and Greg was left standing there with one hand raised halfway in farewell, the other on the back of his neck, and his brain standing there with its hands out while asking what the _hell_ had just happened.

* * *

A/N:

Hi! As previously mentioned, this chapter has gone through a huge renovation. I think it's over twice as long now. I've kept quite a lot of the original in there, but changed bits of it and, obviously, added to it a _lot_.

So, things - Sneaky Mystrade! Mycroft is just _waiting_ to get his hands on Lestrade, you can totally see it. And Greg's all like, "I'm sorry, _what now?_ Don't you, like, rule the world, or something?" And Mycroft's all like, "Hahaha, _yeah._"

Well, no, neither of them are like that, but if I was writing crack, _that's_ what it would be. Hands down. Or up. Or in front of you, whatever.

Um, other things. I realise that when I thanked people, I was being horibbly rude and only thanking people who had reviewed _most recently_, so:

THANK YOU ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO REVIEWED AT THE BEGINNING. YOU'RE MY ROCK. YES, ALL OF YOU. YOU ARE TEH AWESOME.

(deliberate spelling mistake, guiz!)

Can't really figure out if I wanted to say anything else or not, apart from, _what did you think?_ I reckon I might have gone a bit over the top there, especially with Sherlock, but we'll see. Don't get me wrong, Sherlock is awesome, and I'm fully aware that he can be an emotionless, cruel bastard at times (many times...), but _hey_, his person has just been kidnapped, and then drugged, and then forced to say stuff that doesn't come from his own brain. Who wouldn't be all angry and shit at that? No one, that's who. (damn that No One to _hell_).

...yeah...overtired again...this is pretty much all I did today.

Cheers!  
fbt97 :)


	27. The Aftermath

Epilogue  
The Aftermath

"Hello Greg, dear, do come in."  
"Thanks Mrs. Hudson. How've they been?"

Mrs. Hudson frowned.

"It's surprising, actually. At first, it was like whenever Sherlock's bored – honestly, I fear for the state of that flat, no one else is going to want to rent it if they move out – but after a couple days it went quiet up there and I haven't really heard anything for a week. I decided to leave them well enough alone, so I've just been dropping off food outside their door. It's gone each time I go up, so I assume they're taking it."

Greg raised his eyebrows; it didn't sound like Sherlock at _all_ to be less than vocal and demanding when he didn't have anything to do, and even John got bored resting at home with nothing to occupy him. Neither of them had been able to shift either. Greg didn't know how it would feel to be stuck in one skin after being able to switch between two for so long, but he imagined it would be _itchy_.

With some trepidation, he climbed the stairs towards 221B. Reaching it, he raised his hand and knocked firmly.

There were no footsteps growing louder as they approached the door or calls to come in, so Greg waited, and listened. Leaning closer to the wood, he could hear the vague sounds of a quiet argument. It was obviously not serious, so Greg decided not to interfere, choosing instead to knock on the door again.

There was a muffled sigh and John's raised voice shouting, "For crying out loud, Sherlock, put some _trousers_ on!"

Greg stepped back worriedly, thinking about leaving and coming back another day, once all occupants of 221B were clothed, but before he could flee down the stairs, he heard the sound of footsteps growing louder as they approached the door. It swung open to reveal John, hair mussed and a bright smile on his face, despite the earlier argument.

"Hi Greg!"  
"Hello…"

John sounded _chipper_. There was no other word for it, and he practically bounded into the kitchen with the air of an excited puppy. Greg closed the door behind him (feeling very much as though he were sealing himself to his own doom) and ventured further into the flat. He spied Sherlock lying on the couch – thankfully wearing trousers, though decidedly _not_ wearing anything else. Greg blinked a bit, almost blinded by the sheer whiteness of Sherlock's chest; good _god_, that man was pale.

John came back out with three mugs of tea balanced carefully between his hands and his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Greg accepted his and John shot him a quick, grateful grin.

"Here you are, Sherlock!"

John placed the mug on Sherlock's stomach. He yelped and snatched it off, miraculously not spilling any, and glaring at John when he dared to giggle.

Greg's eyebrow raised again. There was clearly something going on that he hadn't noticed. He sat gingerly on the end of the couch.

"How've you two been?"

Sherlock waved a hand airily, but neither of them responded.

"Mrs. Hudson has no idea what either of you have been up to the last week – says she can't hear a thing – and we're both honestly surprised that the flat hasn't exploded yet."  
"Oh, ye of little faith," Sherlock rolled his eyes. John hid his grin (poorly) behind his tea. "John has been doing marvellously well in keeping me entertained, so I haven't felt the need to, as you say, explode the flat."  
"Because, of course, that's my only job in life."

Sherlock twisted and raised an eyebrow at him that seemed to say, '_Well, yes, of course, didn't you realize?_' John just rolled his eyes.

Greg took an awkward sip of his tea.

"Right, well, as long as you two are recuperating on schedule and aren't planning to go after any other fixated psychopaths, I think I'll leave you both to whatever it is you've been doing for the last week."

John and Sherlock grinned madly at each other. Something fell into place in Greg's head. He wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, that's…I can't even. _God_. Goodbye!"

Greg set his tea down on the coffee table (images that he really, _really_, didn't want assaulting his brain viciously) and fled, shouting a vague goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on his way out.

* * *

John laughed, got up to close the door, and then returned to Sherlock's side.

"Well?"

Sherlock chuckled in his deep baritone and leant up to kiss John. He nosed his way along John's jaw, cheekbone, forehead – so similar to the cat he sometimes was. John sighed contentedly and lent into his partner's touch.

-/-\-

They were perfectly matched: loud genius and quiet adoration; head and heart; feline and canine.

Sherlock and John

the end

* * *

A/N:

Wow. Just...wow. WOW! Thank you all SO MUCH for the wonderful reviews and incredible incredibleness! It literally had me clutching my face to contain the extraodinary grin and ridiculous SQUEE coming out of my mouth!

*ahem*

There are a few things I'd like to say now:

1) Reviews.

- To MH (a guest): THANK YOU FOR PICKING THAT LINE. I LOVE YOU. I was so, so hoping that someone would pick up on it. You are awesome and I love you, deeply and forever (anyone seen 'Hawking'?)

- To 3LW00D: You're totally right - poor Lestrade is frequently left to deal with the childishness of Sherlock and John (but mostly, let's face it, Sherlock), probably, I think, because all of his superiors are either too scared or can't be bothered.

- To Arty Diane: You are a fantastic reviewer because you manage to give great constructive criticism, while still feeding my (probably too big) ego! I completely agree that the pool scene was rushed, but by that point of the story, it was the only chapter I hadn't written (I actually wrote the epilogue before the conclusion...) and I was so excited about actually FINISHING A STORY for once in my life that it got away from me a bit. I'm thinking about going back over the summer (Southern Hemisphere) and rewriting it, maybe making it a bit longer. Think it's a good idea? (would honestly love your opinion! :))

- To Flitting: You picked up on my dislike of Irene. :) I'm not entirely sure where it stems from, exactly, but it's probably the fact that I ship Johnlock _so freaking hard_ and she just sort of gets in the way of that a bit. In my head, John ends up cracking and sending her to the previously mentioned (in John's head, at least) fur coat shop. Mrs. Hudson gets a beautiful new coat the next Christmas.

- To The TARDIS blue owl: For starters, great name! And second, insulting Anderson was possibly my favourite bit. It was fun, and so, ridiculously easy... :)

- To everyone else who reviewed, thank you so unbelievably much and I'd love to mention each and every one of you by (user)name, but then the Author's Note would end up being longer than the chapter (although it probably already is).

2) The Pool Scene

As mentioned above, Arty Diane picked up on the rush-ed-ness of the pool scene and I knew, even as I was writing it, that it could be better. But, as also stated above, I was just really excited to start posting on this site (having read here for forEVER). So, over my long break (I'm still in secondary school, guys) which is coming up soon, I'm planning on really focussing on that chapter, taking it apart and, as autocorrect has just suggested to me, 'tweaking' it enormously. I'll probably be making it longer, too, so keep an eye out in the next month or so. :)

3) Potential...

I don't want to become one of those people who writes a story, thinks it gets good praise, and then tries to milk it for all it's worth by writing a million other books in the series. Of course, I wouldn't be writing a MILLION other works, but I am half thinking about a sequel. I would probably mostly include Sherlock and John going around being BAMFs and cuties and exploring (a bit) of their relationship (maybe). With NO sexytimes, however. I'm really far too young to be writing detailed gay sex. I probably shouldn't even have the phrase 'detailed gay sex' in my vocabulary. It would be mainly smushy feelings with lots of affection, and then scene cuts (yay). If there's any interest at all, drop me a review or PM me and let me know, especially if you have any ideas or things you want me to incorporate.

Cheers, and thanks for putting up with this ridiculous note!

FoxBoxTango97! :)


	28. Hellloooo everyone! (AN)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

(allow time for fanfare)

Hellloooo everyone!

So I just wanted to mention just a _couple_ of tiny things.

One) I posted an improved (hopefully, at least) version of 'The Conclusion'. It's chapter 27, so go. Go read it now. Go on, and then tell me what you think. :) But really, I would like to know whether you guys think it's better or worse than the old one.

Two) 'A sequel?' I hear them cry? Well, no, I don't. That's what I'm asking you guys! :) Would anybody, anyone at all, be interested in a sequel type thing? Or even just some extra drabbley bits? I don't know, I'm sort of making these things up as I go along.

Three) Speaking of making things up as I go along, I actually did a _lot_ of planning for this thing (I wanted to get all of my facts right, so there was a fair bit of rewatching episodes and looking up transcripts for dialogue bits, and also wanting to make sure none of my details clashed, and what I wanted to combine from all six episodes to get 'The Great Cobbled-Together Game' [don't worry, that's not what I'm calling it]) and some of my notes are reasonably entertaining (at least to laugh at), so I was wondering if anybody would be interested at laughing at those. Hahaha.

4) I'm sort-of-not-really-almost-but-not-quite thinking about writing another AU, this time with (drum roll please - rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrr) CATLOCK. Yes. You read it. I'M NOT ASHAMED! Well, I am a bit, but not enough for me to not post this!

Five) Please don't judge me. (or at least if you're going to, do it quietly and don't tell me - I don't want to know)

Six) So there's a part of me that really wants to see a Wolfy!John. I don't know how, or why, but I just love the idea of him as a wolf. I mean, I also love wolves, so maybe that's part of it - maybe I'm projecting. Anyway, it would either involve John being the only shapeshifter (and by wolf I mean real wolf, not werewolf, so he'd be pretty [deadly, but _pretty_]) in the AU, or him just...I don't know, being a wolf? Maybe one Sherlock stumbles upon somehow? Look, I don't even know, I just want to see this. So I'm thinking about writing it. Yeah.

Seven) Thank you thank you thank you for all the overwhelming support, guys! I'm constantly so surprised and astounded at the reception this story is getting! (i.e., way more than I could have hoped for!) You make my day. :)

Eight) I hope this isn't against the rules and guidelines, even though it might be, to post an Author's Note chapter. If it is (against the rules), then I'm sorry, and just look at this post as an enormous disclaimer, with some other extra bits thrown in :)

Nine) DISCLAIMER: I own exactly none of the rights to Sherlock, the BBC TV show, or Sherlock Holmes and his various affiliates, the fictional characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't even claim the ideas of shapeshifting! Some person thought of that _way _before I did, and I just happen to love it. So, to summarise, the only thing that came out of my own brain is, in short, the only thing that came out of my own brain, I don't have any responsibility for anything you may recognise from outside sources or otherwise. (that should cover pretty much everything, I think).

Ten) If you're still here, CONGRATULATIONS YOU, YOU WIN A PRIZE. Of your choice! Treat yourself to a virtual and imaginary prize on me! :) [but seriously, if you're still here, you should be congratulated, and thanked, and I do, with both. Congratulations and many thank yous for sticking with me till the bitter end. You guys are awesome]

Eleven) See you around! :) Cheers, foxboxtango97.


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